“No, he isn’t, and that is about all you’re going to get, so drop it.”
“I’m not dropping anything. I want to know who is dating my best friend.” He flips us, so I’m under him on the couch, his nose nearly touching mine. I can feel his breath on my face, and my insides do a flip-flop. I can’t help but think how inappropriate this is, and how bad it would look if his parents walk in.
Wyatt and I have always been inseparable since that first day we met when he ran over and struck up a conversation, helping my mom and I unpack the car. There was something special about him. He understood me. At least, most of the time he did.
We’re both only children. My mom is a typical single mom who wants to prove that she did well leave my cheating asshole of a father, and Wyatt’s parents were, well . . . Your ordinary small-town honest folks with his stepfather and grandfather being war veterans and all. The Barnes’ want their son to follow the straight-and-narrow. I somehow doubt Wyatt would be allowed on the path, let alone follow it. He has a mind and soul of his own, free from the status quo. It’s what I love and hate about him.
“Wyatt, no,” I object. “Get off. You’re heavy.” I push against his chest, which is just toning out.
“Am I?” he says, as his beautiful hazel stare meets mine in an unspoken dare.
I struggle under him, but he has me pinned. I am not immune to the fact that I affect him. His erection jutting into me is a clear indication of that. It’s awkward. I’ve never been this close to any guy besides him.
“And what if I say I don’t want you seeing this Logan anymore?” He whispers the words as his nose trails over mine, entrancing me with the contact. I don’t get it; I don’t understand this whole dance between us. Sure, I haven’t told him I have feelings for him, but that doesn’t mean he gets to flirt and act so possessive. After that first time we kissed, it seemed like he’d forgotten it even happened. And so I pretended too.
“It wouldn’t matter. You don’t own me. This— this has got to stop!” I demand.
A look of something I don’t quite comprehend flits across his face, and his jaw stiffens. He moves off me in one fluid motion, reaching for a cushion to hide his reaction. He takes a seat at the end of the couch.
“Whatever,” he mutters, reaching for his ball again. I take the opportunity to hit him with a pillow. “What was that for?”
“You’re an asshole; you know that?”
“And you love me in spite of that,” he retorts, looking into my eyes this time, challenging me to deny it. He doesn't smile this time. He just stares at me.
I do, more than a girl could love a boy, I want to say, but what does a sixteen-year-old know about love? So I roll my eyes instead and sit with my legs crossed under me.
“You shouldn’t,” he tells me. Those words sting, but I know it’s his thing. Build up walls, be defensive when it counts.
Wyatt and I are a complicated mess.
There is no name for us; there hasn’t been. One thing is sure; he’s the first thing on my mind when I wake each day, and the last thing I think about when I go to sleep. He makes my heart ache, but I’ll never tell him any of that because it is not enough to jeopardize what we have. And the fact that things will always remain this way both hurts and comforts me.
