A soft knock on the bathroom door jars me from my racing thoughts. “Tate?” Brandon’s voice is low, hesitant. “You okay in there?”
Am I okay?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my face still flushed and eyes still wide with panic. What do I even say to him?
“I’m fine,” I call back, my voice a high-pitched squeak. “Just, um, washing my face.”
There’s a long pause before he says, “Look, I’m really sorry about . . . about what happened. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“No, it’s not you,” I blurt out, feeling like a fool at the way my heart gallops as I grip the edges of the bathroom sink. “I’m the one who should apologize.”
God, I’ve made everything so awkward. The last thing I want is Brandon thinking he did something wrong, when I’m the one having inappropriate thoughts about my best friend while I have a boyfriend.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what this means. Is it normal for guys to get turned on like he did, even when it’s with a platonic friend?
Inhaling, I brace myself as I swing the door open to face him. A crease of concern mars his brow, and his hair is slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it the whole time I was in here.
“Hey,” he says softly, his blue eyes assessing as they flicker over my face.
“Hey.” I swallow.
We stand there for a moment in the silence, the air between us charged with something I can’t quite name.
“I’m really sorry about—” he starts again.
“Please stop apologizing,” I say, cutting him off. “It happens to guys all the time, right? Especially during . . . physical contact.” I’m rambling now, trying to normalize what happened even as my mind races with questions.
Was it really just an automatic response? Or could it mean something more? Could Brandon actually be sexually attracted to me?
The thoughts send a thrill down my spine that I immediately try to suppress.
I shouldn’t care if Brandon finds me attractive. It shouldn’t even be a thought in my head. But for some reason—reasons I can’t explain—it matters to me, far more than it should.
“It’s just biology, right?” I wait with bated breath for his answer as his eyes slide over me one last time, an emotion I can’t decipher churning in their depths; one I start to think might mean something more, and as the seconds stretch without an answer, my chest inflates, a small seed of something I can’t name sprouting in my chest.
“Right,” he finally says, and the seed dies. “I’m a guy, and the little man in my pants has a mind of his own.” He offers me a shrug and a lazy smile. “Sorry.”
I fight the urge to scoff at what he just said because there’s nothing little about him.
Not fucking helping, Tate.
I straighten my shoulders, telling myself this is for the best. Brandon and I are friends, nothing more. It’s always been this way, and I wouldn’t want to change what we have for the world because it’s perfect already. Our friendship means everything to me. I’d be lost without it.
Besides, I already have the perfect boyfriend, and these strange, ambiguous thoughts I’m having are probably just a byproduct of my missing him.
It’s with this in mind, I offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes and brush off everything that just happened as I say, “Great. Glad we got that cleared up.”
The drive from Brandon’s apartment back to my dormitory is a blur. My mind keeps replaying the moment my hand grazed him, the heat in his eyes, the way his voice dropped to that gravelly timbre that made my stomach flip.
I crank up the radio, trying to drown out my thoughts with some pop song about unrequited love that only makes everything worse.
By the time I reach Oakridge Hall, I’ve convinced myself I just need sleep. Everything will make sense in the morning. This weird tension with Brandon is just a fluke, a momentary lapse in judgment brought on by . . . I don’t even know what . . . sexualdissatisfaction? Disappointment with my first time? After all, my night with Ethan wasn’t exactly noteworthy.
Once I reach the dorms and unlock the door to my suite, I step inside, feeling a heaviness in my chest.
My roommate, Brit, is perched on the couch with a textbook on her lap. “There she is,” she says, her smile growing. “You must’ve had one hell of a weekend with that boy of yours.”
I cock my head, my brow furrowing in question. For a moment I think she can read my mind before she gestures toward the small bistro table behind her and says, “Those came for you about an hour ago. Three dozen red roses? Had to cost a fucking fortune.”
