Waiting forever isn’t the problem; it’s the heartache that will kill me.
I speak for the first time in minutes, the rough sound consolidating in the back of my throat before dragging over the bed of my tongue like shattered glass. “Thanks for inviting me.”
She whips her head toward me, her mouth upending into a small smile. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’m glad you could come,” she says.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
I have no idea where we’re headed; I’m just blindly following my friends. Wherever it is, though, will bless—or curse—me with more room to spark conversation. I never used to have a problem talking about myself. Hell, I’d find any excuse to brag about my accomplishments or my body or a combination of both to any willing listener. But I don’t want to hear my own voice.
I want to hear Staten’s.
Anxiety gnarls in my belly, and I mentally cross off the hovering possibility of consuming any sketchy carnival food tonight. Girding myself for more awkward silence, I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, hoping that the heat in my neck hasn’t traveled to my cheeks.
Staten and I both speak at the same time.
“Do you want to?—”
“I’m sorry for overstepping your boundaries the last time we talked,” I blurt out, my tone warped in guilt.
Her eyebrows jump to her hairline. “What?”
“The whole eye contact thing. I just—it was too much. It freaked you out.”
Staten takes a second to comprehend what I’m saying before everything clicks into place like jigsaw pieces. “Oh my gosh, no! You don’t have to apologize. I liked it—I mean, it was helpful. Yep. Superrr helpful. I, uh, suck at eye contact.”
My heart—wilted from overwatering or undernourishment, I don’t know—does a little bump of hope.
I was just overreacting. Or maybe I wasn’t, and she’s trying to be nice and spare my feelings. Argh! Why does my brain have to be stuck on a looping treadmill all the time?
“It didn’t look like it to me.”
“I guess I have a good teacher,” she replies shyly, her head haloed in a cluster of stars that glimmer like miniature scythes slicing through the tapestry of night.
She’s stunning, but there’s something different about her. She looks unafflicted by uncertainty. It’s even reflected in her outfit choice: a knee-length, beige sweater dress that cowls at the neck and inadvertently outlines her body’s natural curves, fashioned with a pair of brown lace-up boots from her extensive collection.
This girl is my Achilles’ heel.
Usually, I’m a whore for compliments, but I have no idea how to respond to that. Sweating despite the sixty-degree temperature, my gait turns wooden, and my sensibility is MIA because I’m suddenly considering spilling all my feelings in the middle of a crappy carnival lot.
However, before I can embarrass myself further, Staten skids to a halt, pointing animatedly at a teddy bear the size of her torso. “Oh my God, that’s adorable,” she gushes, snatching the rest of the group’s attention.
The change of subject is like a killer right hook to the face, and I get this inexplicable, overwhelming urge to win her that steroid-induced stuffed animal. I’m no better than a stray cat bringing its owner presents far past their expiration date.
I flatten the attraction with a challenged glare. It’s a high striker—a test of strength. This will be a piece of cake. I bench two forty. My muscles have muscles. Plus, nothing—and I meannothing—will stop me from getting Staten what she wants.
“I’ll get it for you,” I announce in front of everyone, no holdfast of hesitation visible for miles.
Crew sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles. “Atta boy, Mulligan. You should see this guy in the gym, Staten. Dude goes crazy. He’s like Popeye, minus the spinach part. He has an aversion to vegetables.”
Staten chuckles. “You really don’t have to?—”
“Nope, I’m going to. It’s already decided. Think of a good name for it.”
The pimply-faced operator—who dons an expression of boredom that makes me want to free this poor guy from his capitalistic shackles—accepts my five-dollar bill and nods to the giant mallet propped up against the tower. My friends begin to hoot and holler from behind me, and I have to try and ignore the way my heart scuttles for cover in the girdle of my ribs.
Okay, Knox. You’ve got this. Just…don’t lose. Simple.
I can feel Staten’s eyes whittling a hole in the back of my skull as I acquire the mallet and tighten my ten-finger grip, observing the lever, the chaser, and the bell at the very top of the tower. The premise is underwhelmingly insulting.
