I was all too aware of him and the darkness only amplified every sense. So much so that my sanity felt like a ribbon unfurling and falling down a steep edge with no purchase, drifting into the ether.
Instead of paying attention to the movie, my mind replayed moments from Friday night.
Us on the terrace.
Us on the dance floor.
How Hunter went from this sweet, good boy mischievously bantering with me to this nasty, bad boy kissing me with a salacious quality. If it weren’t for the fact that we were in public, would we have crossed another line?
“Saypleaselike a good girl…And I will.”
God, I think we would have.
Hunter didn’t kiss like a gentleman and based on the way he talked…he wouldn’t fuck like one either. Which was exactly what I liked. A man who could take control and pound me into submission until I could barely walk the next day. I wondered if he was a gentle or rough lover. If he was quiet or a dirty-talker. Then I wondered what position he liked best and how he felt about being ridden.
No, no, no. Bad Gabriela. Stop it. You’re friends and not the kind with benefits.
After the mental pep talk to wrestle my thoughts back to a more chaste route, I risked a glance to my right, where Hunter sat.
And frowned.
Why did he appear so rigid?
Was something wrong?
Not wanting to be the asshole who talked during movies and ruined it for everyone else, I flipped open my notebook to a blank page. On the top line, I scribbled the words:Are you okay?
I discreetly slid the notebook and my pen in his direction.
A borderline imperceptible jolt shook his body at my interruption during an engrossing scene, and his head snapped my way, eyes wary.
I chin-nodded towards my stationery.
With nimble fingers, he grabbed it and read my message.
I watched him scrawl a deft response and hand it back to me.
The first thing I registered was his handwriting. It was elegant, sophisticated, and cursive. The kind you’d find in old romantic letters. I closed my eyes briefly, hustling aside the imagery of romantic letters from Hunter running rampant in my mind.
Then I read his message.
No, I am not.
My stomach flipped with concern. In less neat handwriting than his, I replied:What’s wrong?
The notebook was passed back to him. He swallowed, the tip of my pen barely poised against the paper as though he was debating whether or not he should reveal his woe. Eventually, with a resigned flourish, he wrote some more and slid the notebook my way.
I hate horror movies. I’ve never liked them.
For a few seconds, I was absolutely speechless.
He hated horror movies? He never liked them?
What in the ever-loving fuck was he doing in this class then?
Instead of replying, I just stared at him, confusion etched in my features. Hunter stared back, miserable. It was then that I realized he was rigid fromfear.
Clearly, he was being sarcastic Saturday night when he said via text that this was his favourite genre.
