How could I ever taste anything else the same again?
But even as alive as I feel inside, I’m still worried sick. Literally. My stomach is churning as the thought flickers in mymind. What if she wakes up this morning, after having a night to sleep on it, and regrets the whole thing?
What if she decides that it was all a mistake?
No, no, no.
Flinging off the covers, I get out of bed in a hurry, rushing to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my glasses. I don’t have Christmas attire since I’ve never really…celebrated it before? But I did bring a red sweater, and that would have to do. As I throw it on, I simultaneously walk through the room, trying to find my socks, almost losing my balance as I accidentally run into the bedpost.
It’s like my brain thinks that if I move faster, it’ll give her less time to dwell on whether or not I’m good enough to be kissing.
Maybe she’s thinking the same thing, because when I swing the door open to hurry out into the hallway next, she flings hers open, too. We both stand in our doorways, staring at each other, and that’s when I notice the hesitancy on her features. My eyes study her for a moment before I take in her outfit: a cute red and white pajama set with candy canes and snowflakes scattered across the fabric. My lips twitch with the ghost of a smile at that.
“Merry Christmas,” I say softly, still standing in the doorway with my chest heaving like I’d just ran a marathon.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispers.
Even her voice sounds hesitant.
Please, no. Please don’t change your mind about me.Not you.
“Tate, I think we should talk.”
Please.
My eyebrows knit together deeply as she makes her way across the hall toward me, pushing around me as she steps into my room. I’m hesitant to turn around and face her because I don’t want this to happen, I don’t want her to tell me what I think she’s going to tell me, but I turn anyway. Stepping backinto the room, I watch feebly as she closes the door for me, pressing her back up against it as she struggles to make eye contact with me.
That’s usuallymything.
“Last night…” She trails off, rubbing her arms as she hugs herself. “It was a mistake.”
No, please.
That stings.
I get little flashes of tiny me, shutting myself in my room after the hundredth time of my mother telling me she didn’t have time to play with me. Didn’twantto play with me. That no one would ever want to play with me because I was weird.
Why can’t you just be normal, Tate?
I’d heard that question so many times, it was imprinted in my brain.
“Right,” I rasp, but it falters.
“We shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t…” She groans in frustration. “You shouldn’t want to kiss me, Tate.”
But I do.
“Why not?”
“Because,” she urges, finally looking up at me, and I see her eyes watering, “I’m… You deserve anicegirl. A normal girl. A girl likeyou. I’m…”
“You are nice,” I say faintly.
“I’m damaged goods, Tatum. I’m the last person you should like.”
She’s not rejecting me because of me; she’s rejecting me because of how she feels about herself. How that…guymade her feel about herself. And somehow, that feels worse. I’d rather it be because of me. I’d rather it be my fault because I don’t want her ever to feel like she’s subpar. Not good enough. She’s more than enough. She’s perfect.
I frown. “Maeve…”
