My face is flaming now, but I still manage to ask, “Which one?”
He points to the section titledSports Romanceand grabs the first book on the shelf.
“I like them all,” I mutter, though watching this attractive man flip curiously through a novel with a football helmet on the cover, I realize that I should probably stay away from this particular sub-genre.
It might put ideas in my head. Dangerous ones.
Wes freezes on a page three quarters of the way through the book, his eyes widening as he scans the text. Unmistakable color rises up his neck, blooming over his cheeks as his mouth drops open. “Jesus Christ, Ives. That’s…that’sgraphic.” He glances down at me in disbelief, and I almost burst out laughing at the look of shock on his face. “I mean, really graphic. Are they all like this?”
I hold back a smile. “A lot of them are.”
He shakes his head, still incredulous as he returns the book to the shelf. “No wonder women like these so much. I need a cold shower after that.”
Now it’s my turn to blush. Clearing my throat, I follow him into the next aisle, where he peruses the mystery books instead, and allow my heart rate to slowly return to normal.
I want to tell him that women like that stuff because it’s a fantasy. It’s not real life. Real life romance—I meantrueromance—is a myth. The stuff of legend. Meet-cutes, witty banter, and sweet nothings don’t exist in the real world. All that lead up and sexual tension and mind-blowing connection can’t be real.
Not when most guys will take advantage at the first opportunity.
The moment you open yourself up to them, show the tiniest bit of interest, they’ll ruin you. They’ll violate your trust and take what they want and rip through your stupid, idiot heart.
They’ll leave it beating, though. Mutilated beyond recognition, but working just enough to keep you alive even though it doesn’t matter if you’re breathing right. It doesn’tmatter if the blood’s pumping through your veins or your brain’s sending out signals.
Not when your spirit’s dead.
Not when you’ve given up.
TEN
The next timeI rehearse with Wes, I want to avoid a breakdown at all costs, so over the next few days, every moment I’m not in class is spent practicing my speech.
I practice standing up, I practice sitting down, I practice with my eyes closed, I practice in the mirror. I recite until I know every sentence, word, and syllable by heart and every pause, breath, and punctuation is second nature. I record myself and play it back, analyzing everyumandlike.Dissecting every fidget and tic.
It’s hard to stomach, though, because there they are, the physical manifestation of my nerves on the screen. I sway too much. I play with my sleeves. I tug at my hair. I pick at my nails. I’m a beacon of anxiety, an exhibition of unease. Even the way I blink seems apprehensive, too quickly and too many times in succession.
Is this what people see? Is this what Wes sees?
I practice again and again, those questions at the back of my mind a driving force. It needs to be as close to perfect as I can make it before I throw in the curveball of an audience. Things might still go to shit, but maybe my hard work will make it easier. Maybe...
During Tuesday’s class, Markham announces the order of the speeches, telling us that presentations will be spread over the course of three sessions.
By some miracle, Wes and I are both on the third day, which means I have two weeks to get my shit together. Two weeks until my turn. It’s not nearly enough time—twoyearswouldn’t be enough—and the cheese danish Wes brought me this morning turns acidic in my stomach.
That afternoon, I practice late into the evening, tuning out everyone and everything. I consider what Wes said about coming up with a “pre-game” routine—something to calm my nerves and put me in the right headspace—but know that nothing I do is going to make speech day any easier. Nothing except practice, practice, and more practice.
“Wes,” I prompt before Thursday’s class. He glances up from his phone, a look of surprise on his face at my direct use of his name. This would make the second time I’ve said it aloud, and when the dimples make an appearance this early in the morning, I can tell he’s more than pleased.
“What’s up, Ives?” he asks, though I begin to rethink this entire plan as soon as those glittery eyes focus in on me. My heart leaps. Heat rushes to my face. My stomach dips. One look from Wes has the same effect as a shot of caffeine to my system.
Suddenly self-conscious, I fight the urge to break eye contact, pressing my shaky hands beneath my thighs.
It’s Wes,I think.Just Wes.And for some reason, that calms me.
“I-I’m ready to rehearse again, I think,” I stumble, wincing a bit as my pulse skyrockets. I drop my eyes down to his sweatshirt before working my way back up to his face. It’s too much sometimes, the strong jawline, the full mouth, the dark hair curling gently over his forehead and around his ears. Iwonder how soft it would feel against my fingertips and then scold myself for wondering.
“You’re sure you’re ready for me?” he asks, a little bit teasing.
I could never be ready for you,I think.
