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He hands me back the envelope and steps aside to let me in. I brush past him, let my shoulder graze his bare chest, feel the heat of his body as I make my way inside. My skin prickles and tingles. If he reaches a hand out, touches me, I know I'll detonate.
The Thompson house is modern, contrasted with white and black clear-cut lines. Some grey. While our house has a homey, kitschy feel to it, this house looks like a museum with its expensive abstract artwork on the walls, bright lighting, and white leather furniture. It has always appeared clinical to me. Clean, sterile, not somewhere I want to hang out longer than necessary.
I walk into the kitchen and set the envelope on the white marble countertop. Kyle follows behind me, takes a sip of his coffee, leans against the white wall.
He watches me apprehensively, like he can't understand that I'm here, in his house, needing something from him.
"What are you really doing here, Jenny?" he asks as his eyes rake over my body, settling on my chest again. I feel self-conscious all of a sudden. I shouldn't have worn this top. Shouldn't have done my hair.
He can see right through me. I just know it.
I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.
This is a horrible, horrible idea. He's sleeping with that Sunny chick. With her red, luscious hair and talon-like nails. She's got her own place, a job, and can drive a car without another person present. I'm inexperienced and young. My 18th birthday is two months away, but I'm still so young. Especially compared to Kyle's usual bedmates.
I'm so stupid. So, so, so stupid.
Kyle's not interested in me.
Interested in messing with me maybe.
What happened a few days ago at Mrs. Henderson's was probably just another game to him. A way to piss me off.
Except it didn't feel like a game this time. It felt real. Every twirl of his fingers through my hair, that kiss on my neck, his hand running up my back.
I take a deep breath, decide to abandon my terribly thought-out plans. It's probably better this way. The last thing I need is another Thompson rejecting me. I couldn't withstand the humiliation.
I still want Kyle to be the one who stands beside me when I open the letter, though. His presence is strangely comforting. Maybe because I don't feel the need to impress him or put on a show. With him, I'm just Jenny. His younger brother's best friend. Neighbor girl from next door. I'm insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Kind of takes the pressure off.
Maybe that's why I like his company.
"I wanted to open this with you," I say quietly as I pick up the envelope and slide a finger under the flap, "because you…" I look up, watch as he pushes off the wall and moves closer to me. "You annoy me to death, but I also like being around you."
There. I said it. He doesn't judge me when I cry, doesn't beg me to forgive him when I'm mad, doesn't mind my angry outbursts, doesn't tell me to grow up. I do like being around him. I'm willing to admit that. Out loud.
He sets his coffee down on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. His gorgeously tanned chest. Those lean, sexy forearms are just begging my fingers to slide over them, then up his arms to caress his well-defined biceps.
"You like being around me?" he repeats, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Yes," I glance down, embarrassed, and pull the paper out of the envelope. I unfold it, read the first few words on the page. "Kyle," my voice breaks, "Kyle, I got in."
"Of course you did," he smirks. He leans over my shoulder and reads the words on the page. His warm breath tickles the side of my face as he breathes out a sigh of relief. "We should celebrate. My mom just bought some ice cream."
I feel the tears sting my eyes, tears of joy, accomplishment and relief. Not more rejection, but acceptance. "That sounds good."
I reread the letter a dozen times.
I just can't believe it.
I really got in.
Kyle hands me a bowl of ice cream and then slides open a kitchen drawer. He grabs two spoons, hands one to me.
When I look down, I'm surprised to see my favorite ice cream in the bowl. Chocolate chip cookie dough.
I stare down at the bowl, wondering how the hell he knew. This seems too intimate somehow.
He knows my favorite ice cream flavor.
