Our eyes lock again, and I can’t look away. My trembling hands slip around his waist, holding on for dear life.
I want to freeze time. We’ve blown through caution tape all day, but anything beyond this point is strictly off-limits. I don’t think I can turn back. Something I dismissed as my imagination months ago has returned.
Wecan’tkiss, but I could never make myself stop him.
He wouldn’t, would he?No, the guilt would eat him alive.
Doing things the right way is important to both of us, but it’s the essence of his identity.
I’m the weak link here.
I try to read his eyes, but they’re dark caves with indeterminable depth.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
Am I okay?
No, I’m not freaking okay. I WILL NEVER AGAIN BE OKAY.
“Fine. You?”
He nods. “Yeah. We need to talk soon but not tonight.”
Whatever just happened went far beyond his baseline sweetness or the usual ambiguous flirting. I’m trying to reconcile his actions with his words, but I can convince myself of too many opposing theories right now. I have to stop before my thoughts spiral out of control.
He pulls back to place the softest kiss on my cheek and then my forehead, then wraps me in the tightest hug, pulling us out of the corner.
My limp jellyfish body is fully pressed against his warm, firm one, and my ear rests against his chest where the sound of his heart resonates.
Nothing against the mouse, but this is the happiest place on earth. Right here. Right now.
His fingers comb through my hair, then trace an invisible pattern on my back for some immeasurable stretch of time. Comforting as it is, my grip on the back of his shirt is nothing short of desperate.
We need to talkis the scariest phrase known to man. Or woman.
What is he trying to say? He wants me? He wants me to stop blurring the lines so we can move on with our lives?
His words sound likewe need space, but his touch says anything but.
I don’t know how to do any of this without hurting someone. Him, our family, that other guy. Myself.Something has to give. I see that.
I’m living some ridiculous melodramatic version of “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” and that’s not nearly as amusing as it sounds.
Every breath is more of him … some sporty deodorant, night air, coffee, strawberries, those infuriating Tic Tacs.
I can almost taste them.
I want to.
Just as I decide never to move again, he loosens his grip and musses my hair, then turns to put the food in the flipping microwave like he didn’t just tilt my world off its axis.
I tell him I’ll be right back and bolt down the hall. I need to wash off my makeup and review every decision of my life that led to this moment.
Grabbing my oversize Braves T-shirt, I head to the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and change clothes, too dazed to think about anything. I shuffle barefoot back to the living room, where Jude has sports highlights on the TV and is almost done eating.
“Want anything?” he asks, studying me intently as I come back into the room.
This is probably a bad time for me to answer that. His gaze is palpable. As if his hands were still on my skin. Opening my mouth would be a game of Russian Roulette.
