“I—” Fuck it. “You know how I told you I’m a terrible boyfriend?”
He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t argue with me. Looks like I might be on my way to earning that title from someone else.
“Look, it’s an ongoing theme.” I don’t want to do this in my kitchen with the island between us. “Can we?” I motion toward the living room.
It takes a few moments for us to get settled on my sofa. The one I have is much smaller than Oliver’s. Normally, I hate it. It’s too short for me to stretch out fully for an afternoon nap. It doesn’t stop me from sleeping there, but it does make it infinitely less comfortable. Tonight, the space between us feels immense.
“So the thing is,” I start. It’s better to jump right in. “Everyone I’ve ever dated has broken up with me. And every time, they tell me how I’m a great person, but a terrible boyfriend. They’re not wrong either. Part of it is the lack of free time for dating, but it’s more than that.”
“Aaron—” I cut him off before he could go any further.
“Please? Let me get through this.” If I stop now, I’m pretty sure I won’t start again.
“Okay.” He reaches over and places his hand over mine. I can’t stop staring at where the two of us are connected.
“They’re right. I make a terrible boyfriend. It’s not just work and running, it’s everything. I’m boring.” That’s been high on the list of complaints.
“I’m sorry, but those women are full of shit. You’re incredibly interesting.”
“Only if you want someone to talk for hours about marathon training philosophy or the inner workings of escalators.”
“Okay, neither of those is terribly interesting to me, but that’s not the point. I have fun with you. I thought we were having fun together.” I can see in his eyes that this conversation is hurting him. I hate it. All I want is to make him smile again, the way he did earlier. The kind where his whole face is involved, those little lines forming at the crease of his eyes.
“We are. For now, but you’ll get tired of it.” They all do.
“Okay, I’m going to say this today, and then as often as you need to hear it. You are not a bad boyfriend. Now, I know I’m maybe not the best judge, considering we haven’t gone on a date yet, but I can say, without a doubt, that those statements are completely false. You’re an incredible friend. If you weren’t, your place wouldn’t have been full of people today. A big part of being a good boyfriend is being a friend.”
“But—”
“I’m not done.” He puts his finger up to my lips. “And the bedroom stuff? You’ve hinted that they had complaints there? Well, I know absolutely nothing about pleasuring a woman. But I can tell you, without a doubt, that we don’t have any problems in that area.”
Okay, he’s making sense, which is a little bit scary. I still think my past partners haven’t been totally off base, but he might have a point.
“I want to try,” I say finally. “With you. To be better. Not to screw it up.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He laughs as he leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “We’re definitely going to screw it up. Repeatedly. But as long as we can communicate, I think we can fix it.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah, I do. Now, about this date you’re taking me on…”
“Nope. It’s a surprise.” A good one, I hope. I’ve put a lot of thought into it. We’ve spent a lot of time screwing around, just hanging out. Our first official date has to be good. Not something boring or overdone. Something memorable. Something worth all the schedule problems and cancellations. I’m pretty sure I’ve figured it out. Guess we’ll both have to wait to find out.
CHAPTER 17
OLIVER
I’ll believe this is a real date when I’m sitting across from Aaron, at a restaurant, with our entrees in front of us, ready to take the first bite. Until then, I refuse to get my hopes up.
It’s not his fault. My brain knows this. Except when it comes to Aaron, all my common sense goes out the window. I’m a complete mess, waiting for him to call it off at the last second. And since I’m banned from doing another rage run, I’m forced to find another outlet for my frustrations.
It’s not all the lack of dating either. It’s the lack of sex as well. Since the party at Matthias’s place, we’ve seen each other a few times. That included running and crocheting, and the party at his place. Aaron’s been very clear that those don’t count as dates. To him, that means no physical stuff.
And yes, they barely even pass as hanging out. I’m incapable of talking while I run—which I’m pretty sure is how Aaron prefers it—and we usually watch TV while we crochet, onlyinterrupting the show when Aaron has a question about his technique.
He’s right, those aren’t dates, but I’d like to petition to have them count as at least a quarter of a date, especially when Aaron wears his tiny little running shorts. Holy hotness. Those things should be illegal. Outside, of course. Inside, he’s welcome to prance around in them as much as he wants. As the weather is starting to turn, I keep waiting for him to show up in sweatpants or leggings. Nope, always tiny shorts. The image of his tight ass and prominent bulge is burned into my mind.
When he came over for our usual night, he laid out the rules. We were hanging out as friends. No benefits. Not until he got to take me on a real date.
