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“Are you sure? I feel bad that I forgot to mention them last time.”
“I know now. And you don’t need my permission to keep tabs on your pets.” Although I guess now he can also keep tabs on me. That sends a little buzz up my spine.
“That’s not—” He sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I can’t fix it if you won’t talk to me.”
“There’s nothing going on.” I hug myself tightly, as though it will keep the ache from building in my chest. It doesn’t work.
“Liar,” he fires back.
Being around him is like staring at my favorite cake through an unbreakable glass case. I miss talking to him and hanging out like we used to. I want him more than I realized. But I can’t have him. And Scarlet already has. And she wants him back. I can’t admit any of those things, though. I’d never survive the humiliation. “I’m not.”
“You are.” He paces the length of the kitchen before stopping in front of me. “Is this about Scarlet?”
“She seems pretty interested in shooting her shot again with the whole ‘he’s the one who got away’ comment.” I didn’t mean to say that aloud.
He stops pacing and turns to face me. I can’t look at him, though. Can’t see his expression because I’m afraid of how transparent I am.
“There’s nothing going on with me and Scarlet,” he says softly.
It’s exactly what I want to hear, but his reason for saying it isn’t what I want. I will my eyes to stay fixed on his polished black shoes, but they lift, drinking in the sight of him. He’s wearing the tie I gave him last year for his birthday. That’s our thing—I always get him a tie for his birthday, and he always gets me silly socks. This tie is both ridiculous and totally him. It features banana duck, who is also wearing a tie. Stupid seeds burst with tiny buds of hope, until my eyes reach his.
He gives me a pained look and motions between us. “But there’s nothing going on here, either.”
I see the lie on his face. That’s the worst part of this whole thing. We know each other so well. Maybe too well. His denial makes it feel like he reached inside my chest and ripped my heart right out of it. I’m confused, and hurt, and angry, because it’s abundantly clear that there is something going on here. Maybe he doesn’t want there to be, but I feel the weight of attraction every time we’re alone together lately. I felt it when I admitted what I’d done in his bed while he was away, and again last week when I checked on him after his concussion. And I feel it now.
“What did you mean when you said ‘if things were different’?”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t go there, Princess.”
I hate that he’s paired my favorite nickname with a command. If he’s going to accuse me of being a button-pusher, I’ll do my best to push his damn buttons. “You’re the one who said it. I’m just asking for clarification.”
He runs a rough hand through his hair. “Your dad is my best friend and teammate.”
Light shines on that ridiculous bud of hope. “What if he wasn’t?”
“You’re still in university.”
“For a few more months.” Arguing this makes me feel stupid and pathetic, but I want confirmation that I’m not alone here, that I’m not imagining this new tension between us.
“You’re twenty years old with everything ahead of you.” His voice is low, gritty, but the words sound rehearsed, like a mantra he keeps repeating.
“And yet you’re still dreaming about me.” The words are out before I can call them back.
His eyes flare. “How the fuck do you?—”
His expression shutters, and I know I’ve pushed the wrong button. I open my mouth to apologize, but he cuts me off. “I’m not playing this game with you. I’m sorry if you took what I said the wrong way, but whatever idea you have—” He motions between us. “—this isn’t happening. Ever. The sooner you come to terms with that, the easier it’ll be for both of us.”
The humiliation is swift and cutting. My chest feels like it’s caving in. I need to keep it together, but tears prick my eyes, and my chin trembles. “Got it.” My voice cracks.
“Please don’t cry.” He steps closer, and his hand appears in my peripheral vision and for the briefest moment his fingers connect with the edge of my jaw. I want to lean into the touch, but it’s for all the wrong reasons, especially with what he says next. “You have to know how impossible this is.”
“Don’t.” I knock his hand away. “Don’t placate me.”
He looks so torn, like this whole conversation pains him.
I can’t handle it. Not my own feelings, not his unwillingness to admit his exist, not legitimate reasons why this can’t and won’t work. “You’re right, there’s nothing. This is nothing.” I wave a dismissive hand toward him.
“Listen, that’s not?—”
