Would that have actually worked?
Probably not. But whatever. I’ve dealt with worse than a stupid crush. Not that that’s even what this is anyway.
Wasn’t that why I’dalreadybeen debating whether to just say fuck it and let myself go for it with Jesse?
Yeah, it was.
It’s what I’d been going over and over in my head as I’d tried to paint, even before I’d realized the reason why it was gettingcolderin my ice box of an apartment rather than warmer was because the heater was busted and I had no fucking clue how to fix the damn thing.
Now? Standing here in Jesse’s apartment that not only smells like him but looks andfeelslike him too—sorta rumpled and mismatched and messy and worn around the edges, but warm and comfortable and safe—and hearing him call out the bullshit I’d been trying to pull? Now, I feeldirty.And not in a remotely good way.
I feel like exactly what I am; not good enough for someone like him. Which comes back to why I’d run out on him earlier tonight. Not because I think if thingswereto go anywhere between us that he’d end up knocking me around or fucking with my head until I believe every goddamn thing he threw at me, like what happened with fucking Josh, but because things between us nevercouldgo anywhere.
For starters, I just don’t do that shit. And I don’t want to.
Besides, evenifthat sexy, doesn’t-know-how-hot-he-is, too-sweet-to-be-true thing he’s got going on winds up making me forget that, there’s still no way we’d get all that far past just fucking around anyway. Nope, he'd get down beneath the cute, perky surface of me, take one look at what’s really there, and that would be the end of that.
Whatever though. Considering that I went into our date eyes wide open to the extremely obvious reality that things between us could never be more than the sort of one-and-donethat’s become my usual, the truth definitely shouldn’t sting.
Which it doesn’t, by the way. Like, at all.
“Jesus, Tris, I didn’t mean it to sound like that—” In the span of the seconds it’s taken for my thoughts to spiral downthatrabbit hole, Jesse’s face has reached an all-time high of redness as he stammers on, more tongue-tied than I’ve ever heard him before as he trips over his words, “I just don’t want you to feel— I’d never want— That was—”
I open my mouth to tell him I was just kidding, 'cause what’s better than playing stupid shit off as a joke? Instead, for some reason that may or may not have to do with my heart giving a skippy little swoop at hearing that sweet, shortened version of my name slip out of him so easily, what I hear myself saying instead is, “Nothing with you could be just a transaction to me.”
Shit, shit.Shit—
What the actual fuck did I just say?
‘Cause that?Totallydidnotsound like a joke. Or remotely likeanythingI’d ever want to say.
Ever.
Not in my own head, and sure as hell not out fucking loud.
And what am I doing now? Because somehow, I’ve gotten myself stuck, just standing here, staring at him like I have fucking stars in my eyes and little goddamn hearts hovering around my head.
No matter how bad I wish I could, there’s no taking back that shit I just blurted, and apparently there’s no stopping my mouth either ‘cause, “I like you, sunshine—” His name comes out like a question, and I guess it is.
Jesse must think so too ‘cause he nods a quick, jerky little nod that doesn’t do a thing to shut me up as my mouth keepsrunning on whether I want it to or not.
And oh, what thefuckam I saying?
“It’s—”Fuck. “It’s why I freaked out tonight and blew you off at my door. I realized I wanted more of tonight. Like, for us to get to know each other, you know? Spend time together? I didn’t want to just fuck around and then never talk to you again.”
Apparently, I’ve run out of shit to say ‘cause the stream of words finally stops. I look up from the floor where I’d been staring at the spot a few inches in front of Jesse’s bare feet to find him staring back at me with an honest-to-god open mouth. Like a cartoon version of himself come to life.
And then that open mouth, gaping look of surprise morphs into a smile that fills my stomach with that same hurricane of butterflies from that crazy moment when he just showed up, out of nowhere, at my door.
“I’m not following your logic about what the problem is.” He gives his head a bemused little shake that I’m not too caught up in my own shit to realize is totally fuckingadorable.
For a second, he rocks forward on the balls of his feet, like he’s about to take a step toward me, but then he rocks right back, sinking his hands deep inside the pockets of his red and black plaid flannel pjs. ‘Cause of course this guy has actual pjs.
“I don’t do that.” Yet again, without my really meaning to, I’m spouting off shit that I haven’t even let myself think in my own head, let alone planned to say out loud.
My voice is a weird sort of choked whisper now, and my throat suddenly feels raw, like I might actually tear up if I’m not careful. “I don’t even know if I can. But,” I swallow hard, squeezing my eyes shut for a sec, “I think you make me want to try. You know? Just…see where things go?”
What. The actual. Fuck?This guy has no idea what’s wrong with me, why I’m acting like what should be a totally normal interaction, not some forced, over emotional soap opera, is such a huge fucking deal.
