“I’m notemo,” I protested hotly. Didn’t emos wear dark colors and lots of eyeliner? Or was that goths? Or maybe both, I clearly didn’t pay enough attention to trends. “I was just remembering…you know, never mind.”
“Nuh-uh.” He shook his head and set the remote down. “Talk,” he ordered.
Great, back to making things uncomfortable. Great work, Henry. “It’s really nothing,” I attempted. “Just a bad memory of someone who basically told me I was the opposite of a romantic.”
Jamison pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Ok, look, I don’t know you that well,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “but wehavetalked a lot over the last couple of weeks and I feel like I know you enough to say that you’re hardly the he-man, no-emotions type. Are you all hearts and flowers? No. But you’ve got a squishy center.” As if to illustrate his point, he poked me in the gut, where I was, indeed, a little squishy.
I yelped at the sharp contact and pulled back slightly. “Hey!”
“Ticklish?” He grinned and went in for the kill with both hands. “I’ll tickle you until you admit you’re not anti-romantic,” he informed me as I whined and laughed at his tickling. Curie gave us a peeved look and jumped off the couch before she could get caught between us.
“I didn’t say,” I gasped, “that I thought I was. Just that someone told me I was. Stoppppp.” I attempted to pry his hands off me with no success.
“So you admit you have a marshmallow center?” he demanded, not letting up.
I was man enough to know when I was beaten. “Fine. Fine!” I surrendered, and his tickling slowed down. “I’m…squishy.”
“Hmph.” He straightened up, removed his hands from my stomach, and straightened his t-shirt fussily. “Good boy. Opposite of romantic, my left asscheek.”
Oddly specific, but ok. I straightened my own clothes, which had gotten rucked up under the onslaught, and caught Jamison eyeing me as I did it. “What?”
He winked. “Just enjoying the show.”
Right, the show of my soft belly being tucked away under my baggy sweatshirt. Uh-huh. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the remote from him, pressingplayand then setting it down on the coffee table. “Still think the rival is a nice guy,” I couldn’t resist needling him as the action started again.
“Hmm.” He took a sip of his Coke. “It’s because you’re too nice,” he decided after a moment. “You can’t hate anyone.”
I snorted. “Oh, believe me, that is false.” I was totally capable of hate. Well, strong dislike. I definitely strongly disliked my ex, the cheater. I dislikedallcheaters. Did that count as hate?
“Oh yeah?” Jamison challenged. “Who do you hate, and why?”
I couldn’t hold back a wince at the memories that assaulted me. Coming home early to find that my door was unlocked -yay, Ramsey stopped by -and then hearing odd noises from mybedroom -did he get started without me?.Following the noises excitedly, only to find that Ramsey wasn’t alone in my bedroom. That fucker.
“You’re growling,” Jamison observed, a note of wonder in his voice. “I’m not sure whether to be turned on or scared.”
I blinked, realizing that I was, indeed, making a low rumbling noise of rage in my chest. I cleared my throat. “Uh, sorry.”
He took a sip of his Coke, then turned the can in his hands reflectively. “Bad memories?”
“You could say that.” I sighed. Might as well tell him, if he was having to sit through my angry-bear impression. “I was thinking about my ex.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The ex who told you you were an anti-romantic? And then cheated on you? That dick?”
I nodded, sighing.
“Grrr.” His attempt at a growl was sort of adorable, but I didn’t think laughing would be the appropriate response, so I held it in. “I hereby approve of hating that dickhead. You get a pass on the not-hating thing for him. But I maintain that you’re not a hateful sort of guy, generally speaking. You’re too nice.”
Too nice? That sounded…somehow like damning with faint praise. Nobody who accused me of beingtoo nicewas going to want to spend more time with me.Too nicewas boring. Intimidating. “I’m notthatnice,” I protested weakly. “I have a temper. Ido,” I emphasized when he looked skeptical.
“My dude, you’ve been hanging out with me repeatedly and you have yet to chuck anything at my head. I’m gonna go ahead and say your temper is about as long as tempers get.”
I blinked. What was he talking about? I’d been having fun with him. “Why would I want to throw things at you?”
“Uh.” He blinked back at me, apparently as taken aback by my protest as I had been by his assertion. “Because I can get annoying?”
“Who told you that?”
He snorted. “Everybody who’s ever met me. I’m, like, the quintessential hyper-twink. Full of energy and attitude.”
