“Because three weeks of my messages on unread screams dialogue.” A sloshed breath washes away his snarky tone. “I suppose I deserve it.”
“Yes, you do.” My mouth forms a firm line.
“You’re right… I do.”
The sorrowful ache in his voice causes my mouth to droop. While I know Miles isn’t appropriate for me, I don’t want to hurt him, especially after Kayla said he was devastated. He’s come up a few times when she’s mentioned that he asks about me or that he’s been extra mopey lately.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my steps ceasing.
“No.” He places a palm on my shoulder. “I’m the one who is sorry. The last few weeks have given me perspective on how I treated you. I was a bit of a bastard.”
“You weren’t a bastardper se. Just selfish.”
“Ouch—” he presses a hand to his chest “—but accurate. The truth is, I enjoy our friendship, but I also rather enjoy kissing you. I didn’t want to lose both. Your friendship or?—”
“Kissing me.” My brow puckers.
He rubs his nape. “Hence, me being a bastard.”
“At least, you’re an honest one.”
I want to be angry at him. It seems like the appropriate thing to do here, but I can’t muster it. Whether it’s the remaining flicker of the torch I’ve carried for the last ten months, or just not wanting someone to be upset, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that, whatever way you slice it, he never made me promises.
Sure, we kissed, flirted, and went out periodically, but neither of us broached the subject of being more. Because I just waited for him to declare his feelings like in one of my romance novels, rather than asking for what I want.
Not asking for what we want guarantees nobody ever says no.Dr. Nor’s words from last night’s session tap inside me like someone knocking at a car window to get your attention.
My shoulders slump. “Neither of us made promises to one another. I’m an adult and I made my own choices.”
“As did I. I’m sorry if my actions toyed with your emotions in any way. Truly.” He grips my upper arms, kneading his thumbs into me through my sweatshirt. “The last thing I ever intended was for you to feel hurt. I care about you, Jensen. Can we start again?”
“I don’t want to be friends who kiss,” I say, tipping my head up to meet his stare that I know implores me to say “yes.”
“Neither do I.” He steps closer, his timbre low and seductive.
My breath catches. “What are you asking?”
“I’d like to be more. To give us”—he raises his hand and caresses my cheek—“to give this arealshot.”
My stomach twists. For months, I’ve daydreamed about Miles Calloway saying this to me. For me to not just be the girl pining, but to bethegirl.
“I’m on sabbatical.” I shake my head, breaking the momentary trance.
“What?” he says, bemused.
“I’m not dating anyone. Not right now. Not for…” I look down at my sneakers, which have gotten more use in the last three weeks than in the last six months. “Until October.”
“October… As in next year?” he says, aghast.
I step back, breaking our physical connection. “Yeah. I’m focusing on me and the marathon.”
“Kayla mentioned you were training.” He cocks his head. “So, you’re really doing that, then?”
“Yeah.” I wave at myself. “Hence the Sporty Spice getup.”
“And you’re not dating until then?”
This romantic sabbatical is about making different choices. A month ago, I would have said yes to Miles. Just like I did with Chase. I’d happily scoop up the crumbs he offered, believing that’s what I deserved.
