I wait a few unbearable seconds, wondering if what I feel is relief or regret. Then the door opens behind me, and I stumble back into freedom. “All set,” he says, stepping out. “Enjoy your date.”
the push and pull[trope]
the exhausting but oh-so-satisfying romantic dynamic where two characters play hard to get, only to fall into each other’s orbit at the most inconvenient times; expect long stares, dramatic exits, and circular conversations about feelings that they both want and resist
“Where would you hide a vibrator?” I ask into the phone, lifting one of the couch cushions and letting it flop back into place.
“Excuse me?” Paige asks. “What’s going on?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I glance at the dust collecting on the floor, another reminder of the chaos that is my life. “Rafael came over. We argued. My towel got stuck in the door, and my vibrator was on the bathroom vanity. He set me free and now the vibrator’s gone.”
She laughs, the sound so high-pitched I move the phone away. “Are you sure you checked everywhere?”
“Nothing on the couch, the bookshelf, the side table, the rocking chair, the TV set.” I groan, rubbing my forehead. “It’s just gone.”
Paige pauses, then surprises me with a burst of laughter. “I’d say he took it.”
Took it?“What… Who does that? Who steals someone’s only source of pleasure?” My cheeks burn as indignation flares. “A sociopath. A menace—that’s who.”
“Or…” Paige cuts in, her tone teasing. “Someone who’s trying to replace it.”
I hear the knock at my door and already know who it is before I even open it. My heart does this annoying little flip, but I remind myself I’m still mad. Enraged, actually. “He’s at the door. I’ll call you later.”
“Tell him he can keep the vibrator if he gives you his d—”
I end the call and yank the door open, ready to tell Rafael off, but the words die in my throat when I see him standing there, all brown curls and soft eyes.
“I couldn’t help but notice your date was… canceled?” Ten points for not calling me out on lying about having a date like a pathetic teenager. Twenty points when he lifts a takeout bag, the familiar logo of the Chinese restaurant catching my eye. My stomach growls on cue, betraying me. All I have in the fridge is half a lemon and a bottle of ketchup, which makes holding on to my anger even more difficult. Fifty points when he raises his other hand, revealing a folder.
I squint at the name scribbled on top: “The Lit Killer.” I chuckle, head shaking. “I thought you said my nickname was stupid.”
“I never said stupid.”
“Not in so many words.”
Rafael shrugs, that damn smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. I hate how attractive he looks when he does that, the way his gray eyes crinkle slightly, flecks of gold and brown catching the light. I want to trace every one of his tattoos. Find out how many more are hiding under his shirt, maybe farther down. I’m so ecstatic that he’s here, that he’s not done… that I can’t feel any of the fury I’m supposed to.
He didn’t give up.
The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it doesn’t stand a chance.
I grab the file from his hands and make my way to the table, flipping it open to scan the contents. My eyes catch on phrases like “crime scene” and “book-inspired murders,” but I’m acutely aware of Rafael watching me with that quiet intensity of his. He doesn’t say a word as he sets the takeout bag down on the table, the familiar scent of Chinese food filling the room.
The crinkle of the bag and the soft thud of containers being placed on the table break the silence. I glance up from the folder, catching him peeling back the lids, releasing even more of that delicious aroma.
I like the familiarity of this routine.
He fills my plate with a little of everything, and I keep the folder open as I make room for the plate. As he begins eating, I stand, grab the remote, and hand it over. I still feel his gaze on me as I walk back to my seat, but I focus on my material.
Once he lands on an old sitcom, we eat. He watches TV; I read. I’ve missed this—missed him—and that’s much more terrifying than anything in the folder in front of me.
I look back down at the pages, but the words blur. I’m not angry anymore. I’m scared. Was I ever angry at him? Or is he right, and I just jumped at the chance to break things off?
“Anything catch your eye?”
I flinch. “Uh, I… actually, I’ve been thinking about your father’s murder.”
“Uh-huh.” Rafael lifts his gaze off the screen. “What about it?”
