“It’s not a date.” He shakes his head, sounding drained.
I broke my back, not my eyes. Maybe it’s not a date to Remy, but it’s definitely a date to the other guy. Just the thought of them finishing their evening after I piss off back to my house to curl up alone with Gale has a torrent of unfounded jealousy flooding my system.
Is Remy going to tellhimhow he binges old TV shows? Will he look at him the way he used to look at me? I’ve suddenly never felt more inadequate. Inadequate, and like I’m losing something I just found. I want it back. Wanthimback. I want a do-over where I tell football to fuck off and stay in that room with Remy. Maybe we can go out and celebrate graduation together, and then take a cross-country road trip, laughing, fucking, and exploring like in the movies.
Helpless against the pull of his presence, I crowd into him, chest to chest, my palm back on the wall. The way his face goes flush and his gaze flicks to my mouth has me wanting to rub my scent on him like an animal so everyone else will stay away from him. His breath mingles with mine, and it’s all I can do not to lean forward the remaining inch.
“Can he make you moan the way I used to?”
It’s bold talk I can barely get out. I know I can’t fuck him, but I hope like hell that guy can’t either. I don’t want anyone else to even touch him but me.
His breath ghosts my lips. He leans in a fraction, mouth parting. I hold as still as possible, understanding that something from his speech earlier means he needs to be the one to initiate, or I’m in danger of crashing and burning again.
Like a wind snuffing out a flame, he sucks in a breath and draws back. My heart plummets to the pit of my stomach. Lines of conflict etch his face as though he’s discovering something about me for the first time.
“I don’t want a guy who used to crawl in through my window. I want one who comes to the front door.”
The testosterone and adrenaline I was flying on burn out, coughing clouds of black smoke. If it weren’t for the apologetic tone in his words, I’d take them to mean he’s choosing Fancy Pants over me. Maybe I took too many hits to the head back in the day, but I think he’s casting a generalization for what he deemed his destructive dating behavior. There’s regret in his eyes, but there’s fear too. I tried to see what I wanted the other night, but I can’t miss it now. I’m still a stranger to him. He liked parts of the ghost of college past, but the ghost of dumpster fire present is a little too precarious to bet on. I can’t hold that against him.
Drawing back, I give him space. It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes either. It’s a murky and terrifying space in between. As much as I’m dying inside, I’m also grateful that it puts me somewhere still in his orbit.
Hell, I could be reading him all wrong, but I think I have a new window to crawl through, one of opportunity. If I don’t, I’m going to have to find a way to shove my foot in it to keep it open.
I nod a silent goodnight and stuff my hands into my pockets so I won’t look like a horny, threatening heathen.
“Good thing I know where you live now, so I don’t get them mixed up.”
Turning, I start down the sidewalk to head for the comfort of home, my chair, Gale, and my books. As the darkness and sounds of downtown swallow me, I silently hope that there’s at least one book on my shelf about how to be a better man. If not, I’ll have to buy a very strong crowbar, metaphorically speaking.
CHAPTER 10
Remy
Chocolate-covered cake balls. I stop at the recipe in my newest dessert cookbook, deciding they sound like an appropriate breakfast food. I’ve already sworn I’m going to live in these sleep pants for the rest of my life, or at least the weekend. Since they have an elastic waist, I should be able to accommodate the entire batch.
The coffee maker beeps that my second cup is ready. Hopefully, the machine conjured magical powers over the last hour and brewed more invigorating properties into this cup than the last one I had when I gave up on sleeping. You can only lie awake in bed watching so much Dawson’s Creek before you’re in danger of getting bedsores.
Side note, that show reallyistimeless. I’m just as impulsive and indecisive as Dawson.
Dropping my face into my hand, I let out a groan. God, I can’t believe I actually pitched old TV shows in myAbout Mespeech to Chris last night.That…among other embarrassing things.
Additional side note: never speaking again.
Picking up my Sunshine Diner mug, I clod over to the coffee maker. I’m glad Jamie showed no interest in taking it when he visited. I wish I could be more unattached to memories like him. For now, however, I’ll just cart it around the house with me like a scarlet letter. Maybe doing so will remind me of my terrible decisions.
Eyeing the cookbook, I decide my ambition meter isn’t quite full enough for baking. They say emotions go into cooking. If that’s true, it can’t be wise to do so while you’re disgusted with yourself. No one likes disgusting balls, cake-filled centers or not.
A survey of my living room makes the couch look tempting, but I know if I sit my ass down on it, I’ll end up binging the life and loves of Sookie Stackhouse because fuck Dawson right now. Except, watching hours of horny vampires having sex probably isn’t a wise choice either.
Crap. What’s a healthy alternative to watching vampire sex?
Sunshine?
Vitamin D is supposed to be a mood booster. And can you really say you’re part of a neighborhood until you’ve been seen in your pajamas drinking coffee on your porch?
Despite my cynicism, I’m grateful the sun is barely up as I step out my front door and breathe in the morning air. The only sounds I hear are the chirping of birds, telling me that my neighbors are normal people who sleep in on a Saturday rather than spend a Friday evening toying with the emotions of their former college crush. Tromping toward the rocking chair and little patio table I bought, I take a small comfort in the fact that I’m finally going to put them to use.
“Morning.”
