“Yes,” I said with a low, shaky laugh. Sort of… if one called the fumbling I did with a high school boyfriend sex.
“And it wasn’t good?” He turned my hand over and ran his fingertips across my skin. Our hands contrasted like night and day. It was jarring and beautiful. His white skin looked pale under the library’s yellow light. He was tanner in the classroom. How would he look in the light of my dorm? On my bed? …on his knees?
“It was fine,” I mumbled and pulled away from his touch in fear I’d get lost in it.
“You make a rule.” He offered the pen.
I took it. It was warm from his touch. I stared at the notebook he nudged in my direction, trying to come up with something without talking myself out of this. The pen pressed against the paper, and a small, black ink spot appeared. My hand stayed trained there for a moment before I finally worked up the courage to write what I wanted.
No talking about it after
“It’ll make things easier,” I explained when he read the question out loud. “Less awkward. We could just… let it happen.”
For a second, it looked as though he was going to object. But, in an instant, he smiled and said, “Makes sense. I have another one.”
I handed him the pen and watched him scribble on the sheet. When he turned it back to me, so I could read, my heart started racing again.
Scream my name when appropriate
“Can you do that?” His eyes never left my face. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I nodded in response while looking at the table. Focusing on the swirls of the wooden surface for a moment kept me steady.
“Two more,” he said. “For now.”
He wrote,No titles
“It’s a promise I made to myself after my last relationship,” he explained in a slow, careful tone. His eyes studied me, examining my reaction like he was expecting something in particular.
“Are you okay with me asking what happened in the relationship that made you not want titles?” I asked. He clicked the top of the pen a few times while I waited for him to elaborate. As he cleared his throat, I chewed on my fingernail. I thought I had made him uncomfortable, but I didn’t know how to smooth things over.
“Sorry,” I mumbled after a beat. “I didn’t mean to trigger any bad memories.”
He chuckled while shaking his head. “You’re fine. It’s not the memories that make me hesitate. I don’t want a relationship because I don’t think I’m good at them. I like seeing the girl I’m with happy and a lot of the time, I can’t give her everything she needs.”
“Do you try to give her what she needs?” I baited.
He blew out a breath. “If she asks, yes. I always try. But I always fall short and just bring temporary satisfaction. I… don’t think I’m enough yet. At least, that’s what my ex said. And I hated that feeling, so I stopped trying a while back. It’s juvenile, I know. Perhaps a little cowardly too but it works.”
Weston let out a low laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes weren’t on me anymore but trained towards the floor-length windows of the library. It was his turn to shy away and I was surprised to see red in his cheeks.
“Didn’t think I was going to say all of that,” he confessed as he shook his head. “But I did say no bullshit.”
I smiled, appreciative of his honesty. “Okay, then no titles.”
He picked up the pen to write his last rule and I waited to hear the scratching of the pen on paper. When there was a moment of silence, I stopped zeroing in on the table and looked up at Weston. His hand was still poised to write but stayed frozen. Was uncertainty creeping in?
“This one’s the most important,” he prefaced and then wrote his last rule.
Leave when you don’t need me anymore.
He was giving me an out. I bit my lip, half-impressed, half-wary.
“I thought football players were too self-obsessed to think someone could walk away,” I joked. The words slipped out before I could think. I covered my mouth instantly, a hollow attempt at retraction.
Weston laughed, like genuinely laughed with his head thrown back and his shoulders shaking. It was infectious and I let out a guarded giggle. This noise was enough to get us a “shh” from the librarian and a dirty look from the guy watching his film.
“Maybe,” he said after quieting down. “But, I’m not really a football player.”
I frowned. His posters were all over campus. He wore training sweats to our nine am class. I’d never seen him without less than a gallon of water on hand.
