Page 106 of Blush Crush

What the hell did I get myself into? All I’m doing is prolonging the inevitable. As soon as we’re done, they’ll finally get together and I’ll just be some guy who gave her all the practice she needed to please him.

The thought of her in bed with him has my stomach rolling, acid crawling up my throat.

“Cole,” my mom snaps. “What’s going on? You’re still with Ariana, right? Because if you already messed this up I’m going to?—”

“Yes, Mom. We’re still together. Just put us both down for chicken.”

She sighs, visibly relieved. “Oh, good. You had me worried.”

“Nothing to worry about,” I mutter. “She’ll be there.”

“You know,” she starts, closing her laptop halfway, “I had my doubts when I first heard the rumors. She’s a little young for you, and I’d never really seen her with a boyfriend, so I didn’t know what to make of it. But then I saw how protective you are of her. And how sweet she is with you.” She tilts her head. “Kind of a perfect match, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, Mom.” I exhale. “Perfect.”

“Just make sure you treat her right. She’s not one of your floozies?—”

“Jesus, Mom. No one says that anymore.”

“What I mean,” she continues, unbothered, “is don’t treat her like she’s just another girl. She’s special, so act like it. Take her on dates. Spoil her.” She pauses, and her eyes drift like she’s recalling a memory. “You know your father was—what do you kids call it—a fuckboy?”

I grimace as the urge to crawl out of my skin has me wiggling in my seat.

“He got around and I wanted nothing to do with him,” she continues. “Until he proved to me he wasn’t going to treat me like I was temporary.” She looks at me steadily. “Ariana is a sweet girl but she’s also smart, and smart women come to their senses eventually. Don’t give her a reason to.”

I’m about to say something dismissive—something that would end this conversation—but then I remember it’s almostFebruary. And February is a rough month for all of us, but especially my mom.

So I keep it to myself. And I let her have this because I know it comes from the same place everything she does comes from. Love. Love that doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“I hear you, Mom,” I say instead.

She looks slightly surprised. She was probably braced for pushback.

I head back to work, more than a little irritated my mother managed to get inside my head.

I can’t give Ariana the things I know she wants. She wants love and marriage and babies. Maybe not now, but someday. And I just can’t.

But imagining her doing those things with anyone who isn’t me makes me physically ill, makes me lose it a little, contemplating things that definitely aren’t moral or legal.

I don’t know when my brain made the switch fromget her out of my systemtofind out how to maybe make this real.

But I don’t know how to handle it. I’ve never been with someone who made me question everything I’ve stood for. My foundation feels shaky. Everything feels out of control. But the one thing that stays upright and steady is Ariana.

I know I’m wrong for her. I’m as wrong as it gets, but I think I’d like to try to see if I could be right. If maybe I’m not broken beyond repair.

I should’ve texted her first. She might not even be home. It’s Sunday, the weekly Ledger family dinner night. The one I still haven’t been invited to.

Every excuse I can think of has kept my fist inches from her door, hesitant to knock. Fuck, I’m nervous. Which is comical because, for all intents and purposes, she’s my girlfriend. I shouldn’t be nervous to ask my girlfriend out on a date.

My knuckle is a breath from the door when it swings open.

Ariana is standing in the doorway in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair wet from a shower, holding a white kitchen trash bag in one hand. She’s so fucking beautiful and she clearly did not expect to find a person on the other side of her door. Based on her expression, she especially did not expect that person to be me.

“God!” Her hand flies to her chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” I lower my fist, which is still raised at approximately knock height. “I was about to—” I gesture at the door.

She looks at my hand. Then at me. Then at the trash bag in her own hand like she forgot it was there. A flush creeps up her neck.