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“I listened to your podcast on unrequited love.”
“Oh.”
It’s all I can say as my mind does frantic flips, trying to work out how to explain this without throwing myself at him, without charging upstairs, and getting the notebook with his name written hundreds of times.
“It makes me wonder who this man is,” Bryson goes on.
His intensity is similar to when he dragged me into his lap and carried me up the stairs like nothing could stop him. It’s like he’s reflecting all the obsessive feelings I’ve ever felt back at me, like he can’t control himself.
I shake my head.
“I don’t…”
Know how to explain this without scaring him. That’s what I want to say, but it will be too obvious.
“Want to talk about this?” I finish instead, reaching for the door.
“Harper,” he says, a note of regret in his voice, but it’s too late. I push the door open, exit the car, and stride across the street.
There’s no way I can tell him about my crush. If, in a different world, he’d want me and want the future I long for, I couldn’t explain it. It would freak him out to know the obsession I’ve harbored for so long, way before it was appropriate—a girlish crush turning into the flaring fires of womanhood.
I take the stairs quickly, then quietly open my apartment door and sneak into my bedroom. If Tiffany woke and saw the tears in my eyes, she’d want to know what was wrong. I’d have to explain about the not-a-date with Bryson, skulking from the pizza joint.
I’m not sure what takes me to the bedside drawer, to the notebook buried under a bunch of random stuff. I pull it out, open the first page, and read the words.
Bryson loves Harper. Harper loves Bryson.
I study the love hearts, and then I flip the page, reading his name again and again.
This is reason enough for Bryson to want to back off.
He mentioned the age gap as though it was a problem, and I did my best to convince him I’m mature enough to make a decision about my future and my relationships.
I believe I am. IknowI am.
What would he think if he saw this notebook and knew about my crush?
I sit up in bed, open the book down the middle, gripping both sides tightly, and get ready to tear it in half. I should’ve done this a long time ago, obliterated any evidence of my silly girlish crush, and pushed it deep in my mind where I’d never have to think about it.
But something stops me. It’s like the girl is yelling inside me, telling me no.
The fantasy is too special. The dream is too important.
It’s more than I’ll ever get in real life, but he seemed jealous when he asked about the podcast, like he wishedhewas my unrequited
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Bryson
Driving home, I know I made a mistake allowing my jealousy to spiral until it burst out of my lips. It was when she saidsome menwouldn’t find her figure attractive. The thought of any man having an opinion of her figure is sickening enough to bring out the beast. She said she didn’t want to talk about it, then left.
Maybe she was picturing this other man, whoever he is. It was enough to send her running, but earlier, she wanted to know what she and I were doing together.
It was as if she wanted more than the lust-filled clashing of our bodies, more than bending over as I guide my manhood to…
Enough. I stamp on the thought before it can possess me like a demon. Instead, I think about the date we sort of arranged, wondering if she’ll want to do it after the way we ended things.
I can still taste her on my lips, and that is reason enough to be with her again, to get as close to her as I can, to spend as much time with her as she’ll let me.
