“I came here to dance,” I snap.
He sweeps his eyes all over me, taking in my messy, curly hair, my painted lips, my sweater and my cargo pants, before standing up straight. “Well then, by all means, don’t let me keep you.”
Finally, I shake my head.
Enough.
Enough.
I frown at him and another surprising thing happens. Ashockingthing.
He smirks at me. Atme.
After eight years.
After eight fucking years, I finally get what I’ve been wishing for. His smirk.
And my stupid fucking heart can’t handle it. My stupid fucking heart swells and swells in my chest until it’s aching, and I know it’s a rather drastic reaction to a simple smirk, and people might call me crazy.
But they don’t know.
They’ve never been in my position. They don’t know what it feels like when a guy you’ve loved for eight years, who loves someone else, smirks at you, and his eyes shine because of it.
You lose your breath. You lose your sense. You lose all your goddamn goodness and almost tell him that you want him.
But somehow, I pull myself back.
Somehow, I dig my nails into my palms and remember that he’s Sarah’sboyfriendand I’m here forher.
And he’s lying.
He’s trying to distract me. That’s what it is, isn’t it?
He’s playing with me and he’s enjoying it.
So weird.
So glorious.
“You’re trying to distract me,” I accuse.
“It’s not my fault that you’re so easily distracted.”
“And you’re lying to me, aren’t you?” I squint my eyes at him, trying to control my heart. “You’re making this whole thing up. You didn’t punch a door.”
“Yeah? What did I punch then?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a door.” I stab a finger at him. “You’re trying to distract me from the real question.”
“And what’s the real question?” he asks in a whispered, almost mocking voice.
“Where’s my sister?” I snap out.
His eyes bore into mine then. And maybe it’s the trick of dismal light or whatever, but his features glow, as if drawing attention to themselves.
Attention to how sharp and harsh they look.
How tight.
