Then his eyes find mine, sparking like little gems under the moonlight. “No one’s ever planned something for me before.”
“Never?”
His lips twist into what’s supposed to be a sly smile but just looks sad. “I guess I don’t really give people a chance.”
“Do you need to?”
“Well, if I’m always around, then … what are they supposed to do?”
“Plan it anyway.” The answer is that simple to me. “When you’re with someone who deserves it, you do it.”
“Yeah, but … I don’t think anyone’s ever thought I deserve it.”
I could kill the people he’s been with. “They were wrong.” We watch each other, and I’m almost sick with nerves. Sick that I’m going to say the wrong thing. End this moment before it can start.
But making sure he knows how special he is is worth fighting my anxiety.
I force my way through it. “Why haven’t you been smothering me?”
The question catches him off guard. “What?”
“You’ve been …” I don’t even know how to describe it without sounding like a loser. “Different.”
He doesn’t deny it. “Ah, I just, I’m trying to be cool. Not jump in too fast.”
“Why?”
“Ziggy …” He tries to pull back, but I grab his hands. If I’m doing something wrong, I need to know.
“Why, Kenny?”
“Because I’d hate it if you got sick of me.”
I stare at him, processing the words that sound ridiculous all together. Get sick ofhim? Kennedy Bellamy? The guy who puts himself last and everyone else first? Who doesn’t question all my weirdness and just jumps in and tries to match me at my level. Who’s sweet and kind and happiest when he’s around others.
“Sick of you?” I echo, because I’m still trying to work out how he can mean that.
He gives me a halfhearted smile and tugs me over to sit down with him on the blanket. “You ask that, but it happens. Easily. I’ve told you how it always goes.”
“You don’t trust me?” The question is painful to ask.
“What?No. I don’t want to put you in the position where you wish I’d fuck off but don’t know how to tell me. And then it gets to be this huge issue I have no idea about until you lose it and say you can’t do it anymore.” His voice cracks. “I can’t go through that again.”
“And you won’t,” I promise him. “Those breakups weren’t your fault.”
He’s about to argue, and I frown at him to shut up a minute.
“You gave it everything. And they didn’t. If I annoy you, you’ll tell me. If you annoy me, I’ll tell you. I don’t want you holding back. So stop it. Because the more you do it, the more I feel like you’re getting sick of me.”
“I could never.”
“Then prove it,” I beg him. “Overwhelm me. Never leave me alone. Be clingy and needy andyourself.Then I get to tell you what I like and what I can handle.”
His lips part, and he searches my face. “You’re serious.”
Yes.
A long rush of air leaves him. “Want to know what I like?”
