I want her struggling for air as much as I am.
I clear my throat, force my gaze away from hers, and then return to my seat before I lose control.
“Do you have any idea who she is?” I ask, placing another puzzle piece as she sits. “Your stalker, I mean.”
I can feel her gaze moving over me in such a way that she hesitates, and I feel my muscles tense.
“No,” she finally says. “I don’t have a clue. Though, when you called me rockstar today, I had a jump scare.”
Shit.
I laugh despite the turmoil inside. “Bonnie, if I was your stalker, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to use the same nickname,” I say, playing it cool. “That’s an amateur slip-up.”
It’s her turn to smile. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be pretty stupid,” she agrees.
So fucking stupid.
“So… what about you?” she asks. “Have you ever had a stalker? Crazy ex?”
A smile almost lifts my lips. “Ah… ex-girlfriend,” I tell her. “She wasn’t crazy, though. We met in college.”
“Why did you break up?” she asks.
Because I watched you jump on the stage with Young Decay, and I forgot anyone else ever existed.
Because seeing you again after two years of absence made me want you even more.
Because you looked like you had so much pain in your eyes, I just wanted to make sure nothing else hurt you.
And I failed at that, too.
“We grew apart,” I answer. “She was leaving for the East Coast and wanted me to go with her, but California is my home. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
I can’t imagine being somewhere that you’re not.
“Same,” she says. “My dad… He’s such a beach bum,” she says, and I chuckle.
“That makes sense considering I always heard people talk about the sand in your hair,” I say.
“I mean, look at my hair.” She holds out a few strands. “It’s like a sand burial ground.”
I laugh with her, still trying to connect the same puzzle pieces I’ve been staring at for minutes now.
“Oh, wait, I think I need those,” she says
We play in silence for a few minutes, only the noise of us going back and forth to trade pieces and grunts of frustration when we can’t find something. I’m restless just from this, from every smile she glances my way with, every second our fingertips brush…
I don’t know how long it is before Bonnie sits back and begins to fumble with a corner piece, and I can feel her eyes on me as the noise of an ambulance sounds below.
“This is nice,” she says.
“What?”
“Being able to just sit with someone. Do a random puzzle. Talk about… life,” she admits.
“You don’t do this with the guys?” I ask.
“I do, it’s just… It’s different.Thisis different. I haven’t hurt you yet,” she says.
