Can I honestly say I’ve moved on that much since then? Am I ready to be with Alex, walk down the street holding hands? Introduce him to Dad as a boyfriend? The way Alex is looking at me now with that sweet smile, that’s clearly what he expects from me.
I don’t think I can do it.
“What’s wrong?” he says. “What are you looking at out there?”
He cranes his neck, trying to look out the window without standing up. I sit beside him fast before he gets up and figures it out.
“Nothing. There’s nothing out there. Just... would it be okay if we just hang out for a while?” I say.
“Hangout?” He wrinkles his nose, looking confused.
I get all American in my phrasing when I get nervous. Does he know that?
“Erm, yeah,” I say. “I mean, just press pause on… what we were about to do.” I mutter the last few words at the end of an embarrassed breath.
He blinks, surprised. I can’t blame him. I was the one who started kissing him and then carried him upstairs like some overbearing character from a play. I’m the one who’s made all the moves here. Now I’m blowing hot and cold. But his perfect manners and maturity win out, as usual.
“Of course,” he says.
I put my arms around him, at a loss but still wanting to hold him.
“This is nice too,” I say. “Just holding you. Instead of always having to get each other off.”
He nods, hot breath on my neck.
It’s true. Itisnice. But he must know something happened to change my mind. He must know I’m getting cold feet.
He knows I’m a coward.
Chapter 7
Alex
Acouple of days later, I’m still trying to figure out what made Dane freak out. One minute he was carrying me upstairs like he wanted to ravage me. The next he was staring out the window with a haunted kind of expression on his face andsuggesting we just cuddle. He’s being so weird. I’m starting to wonder if he actuallyhasbeen visited by Christmas ghosts. Since when does he want to cuddle me without getting something out of it? And he was so nice. He showed up with Lucozade and lunch and didn’t gloat about my treadmill fall… at least not too much. He even let me pick the film and he didn’t laugh when I got squeamish about the booby traps. A few days ago that would’ve been unthinkable. He would’ve for sure used it against me and mocked me about it during tennis matches to try to get in my head. Probably told half the club, too.
Is it because of my ankle? He feels bad that I’m injured and out of action and can’t play tennis? Is it just pity? But why come around to visit at all? It’s not like I expected him to. We’re not friends. We’re basically acquaintances who fuck. And now cuddle, apparently.
I look at the clock and get a jump scare. I’m running late. I’ve spent way too long getting ready, trying on ten different outfits and throwing them on the bed in disgust. I want to look just right. I throw on a pair of ripped black jeans and a sequin top and admire myself in the mirror. Not bad. Then I remember it’s winter. I have to ruin the whole thing by pulling on a giant, shapeless parka to keep warm.
I go downstairs. Mum is leaning against the kitchen island, watching some Christmas concoction bake in the oven. The scent of holiday spices fills the whole house. As long as I can remember, she’s gone big on Christmas and birthdays and any special occasion. She always wanted to give me a great childhood even without my father being here.
“Going out?” Mum says, clocking the parka.
“I thought I’d drive up to Belfast and surprise Dane at his exhibition match.”
She scowls. “Well, well. Dane is a lucky boy.”
She might be a wee bit biased. She’s never forgiven him for the mistletoe debacle. She knows the whole embarrassing story and she’s held it against him for years. We’ve always been close. I’m one of those losers who actually confides in their mum. Usually she doesn’t give me any reason to regret it. She gives great advice and doesn’t intrude too much into my business. But it’s obvious she’s itching to say something now.
“What is it?” I say.
“If that boy breaks your heart, I’ll break his neck.”
I laugh even though there’s a good chance she isn’t joking. “We’re just friends, Mum.”
“You think I came up the Lagan?”
“Really,” I insist weakly. “There’s nothing going on.”
