“You don’t get to call my firsts. They’re mine. And why should I let you be first in anything when I’m just a second for you? It’s not fun being second choice, is it?”
She pushes on me again, but I reach up and grab her wrists, holding her hands on my chest. “You’re not my second choice, Nell.”
“My bad. I forgot about football. I guess that really does make me third, doesn’t it? Excuse the mistake in my math.”
“Nell,” I growl.
“I’m glad to see you’re doing okay, though. You know, silly girl that I am, I actually came to your football game today.”
That rattles me. “You were there?”
“I was. But I left before the game started. I just didn’t feel like having to endure hours of watching you endanger yourself, to watch you put a sport above me, above yourself, above everything.”
“I didn’t.”
“You can justify it however you want, but I don’t want to listen to it.”
“Nell.” I drop her wrists to clasp her cheeks and force her eyes up to mine. “I didn’t play.”
She frowns, and that indentation between her brows pops up, and she lifts her chin stubbornly. “I saw you. You were in your uniform. Warming up. You were going to play.”
“I was going to, yeah. I had planned to play, and then as soon as the game was over, I was going to come find you. But then I realized that I couldn’t expect you to listen to what I had to say if I wasn’t willing to listen to what you said. That fight . . .” I shake my head and drop my hands from her face. Taking a step back, I say, “It was my fault. I wasn’t really listening to you. I was hearing what I wanted to hear. Things between us were getting real, fast. And it scared me. And then you were trying to tell me to be realistic about playing with a concussion, but I just heard Lina telling me to be realistic about football. About my dreams.”
Nell crosses her hands over her chest, and with her chin tilted up, she looks strangely vulnerable despite the fire in her eyes.
“So I have her to thank for why we got together, and why we broke up.”
“No.” I shake my head, fighting the urge to press her against the wall again. This would be so much easier if I could just kiss her, and that kiss could tell her all the things I’m doing such a shitty job of getting out of my mouth. “It’s not like that. You might have reminded me of Lina in the beginning, but not anymore. And what we have, what I feel, it’s not because you’re like her. It’s because you’re not. I should have known that you would never say that kind of thing, but that word . . . ‘realistic’ . . . it’s some kind of trigger for me. And all I could think was that you were going to end it, just like she did, because you’re so much better than me, Nell. And I don’t fucking deserve you. But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop wanting you.” I do cross to her then because I need to touch her, have to. I run my knuckles over her cheek, and her eyes flick down to the floor. “I didn’t play today. I was on the field for a handful of seconds before I walked off and told Coach Cole everything. I didn’t play, and I should have listened to you, and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Nell.”
My voice is raspy by the time I finish, and I’m barely fighting off all the emotions clamoring for control.
When her eyes don’t lift to mine, I start to panic. I back away and pace along the length of the Ping-Pong table for a few moments, dragging my nails over my shorn head. I cross to the closet where I’d deposited my bag as soon as I came into my room and saw Nell. I unzip my duffel, and the spiral is lying there on top of my clothes and shoes and other junk. I pick it up and turn back to her.
“Ah, hell. I’m not good at this kind of thing, Nell. I know how to joke and flirt and screw around, but I haven’t had much practice being serious in a while. I don’t know how to get the words out, how to find the right ones. Not when there’s so much I want to say, and so many ways I could screw it up. I’m sorry that I yelled at you and started that stupid fight. I’m sorry that I didn’t listen about the concussion. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Lina. But mostly, I’m sorry that I let you go at all. I should have stopped you when you walked away or pulled you into my lap again in my truck or followed you back into your apartment. Anything but what I did.”
She lifts her chin, not quite to its normal haughty heights, but enough that I can tell she’s still holding back.
“Okay,” she answers.
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay. I accept your apology.”
But she doesn’t look like it. I’d thought if she accepted my apology, we’d be kissing by now. Why aren’t we kissing now?
“Damn it. I’m fucking this up, aren’t I? Just . . . read this, okay? I wrote it during the game, and it says it better than I can.”
I shove the spiral at her, no finesse, no charm, just fear and panic and desperation. She opens it to the first page, and her eyebrows furrow.
“Oh, not that one. That’s the only notes I ever took in my Spanish class. It starts on the next page. Sorry.”
She flips the page, and I can’t help but feel like she’s holding my heart in her hands, and it’s just as fragile as the paper between her fingers, just as easy to tear in two.
Chapter 29
Nell’s To-Do List
• Yeah . . . I’ve got nothing.
His handwriting is messy. Slanted and hurried, and it’s nearly as hard to decipher as he is. My hands are shaky, and my heart won’t work properly no matter how many calming breaths I take.
Ways to Prove that you love Nell De Luca
1. Tell her. Every day. Three times a day. As many times as it takes.
2. Never choose anything else over her. Not football. Not your own stubbornness. Nothing.
3. Be there whether she wants to go skinny-dipping or wants to study. Make sure she knows that she’s the adventure, not anything else.
4. Always tell her how amazing her food is (okay . . . that one is partly for you, too, because it means you get to keep eating her food).
5. Give her the best sex of her life (also works out pretty well for you).
6. Teach her whatever she wants to know, and learn from her, too. She’s a fucking genius.
7. Tell her she’s a fucking genius. All the time. When she doubts it and when she doesn’t. Just tell her.
8. Never walk away after a fight. Don’t. Fucking. Do it.
9. Prove you love her (preferably in bed, but that’s optional) once a day. Three times a day. As many times as it takes.
10. Be worthy of her. Not by playing football or pretending to be something you’re not. By being the man she makes you feel like you are. Strong and smart and kind and so damn lucky to have her.
I don’t know whether to cry or laugh or both as I read his words. And the fist around my heart is shaking, or maybe that’s just me. I look up at him, and he has his hand tucked behind his head, watching me from over by the Ping-Pong table. Longing and fear are etched all over his face. He’s terrified of what I’ll say.
And he didn’t play today, and he wrote me a list, and he says he loves me. Or he wrote it anyway.
“Well,” I say, my voice scratchy with pent-up tears. I take a few steps toward him. “Let’s hear number one, then.”
He crosses to me in two strides and pulls me up into his arms. His muscles wind tight around my middle, and he presses his forehead into mine like he can’t get close enough. “I love you. I’m so sorry, Nell. You might have reminded me of Lina in the beginning, but what I feel for you is so much bigger than that. So much better. I love you. You’re a fucking genius. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” The words shake coming out of my mouth, so I repeat them. More for me, really, than him. I love him. This is not beyond me. This feeling, the way something in me feels too big for my body, the need to bring him closer and closer . . . that’s normal. I’m normal.
He turns and sits me right on the edge of the Ping-Pong table beside us, and covers my mouth with his.
Okay, maybe we’re not entirely normal. But I like our kind of normal.
His mouth pushes and pulls and dances with mine, and he promises against my lips, “As many times as it takes. You’re not gonna doubt me, sweetheart. I’ll make sure there’s no room for doubt, not when I’m done.”
I drag my hands over his back, tracing the muscles, reminding myself that he’s here. That this is real. He drops his face into the crook of my neck and groans. His big hands run the length of my thighs, to my knees, and then back to the curve of my behind. He cups me there, squeezing and pulling until I’m right at the very edge of the table, and then he presses his hips into mine.
His hands glide up to grip the bottom of my shirt, and he starts tugging it up.
“Mateo, there are people outside. A lot of people.”
He kisses me hard, driving his tongue between my lips a few times before he says, “Don’t care.”
“Mateo—”
“Keep saying my name. It’s only going to make me more determined to have you.”
He gives my shirt another tug, and then he’s pulling it up and over my head. He groans and bends farther to drag his lips over the swells of my cleavage. I fight to keep him from distracting me, but it’s hard, especially when he tugs down one cup on my bra and sucks the tip of my breast into his mouth. My back arches involuntarily, and I clutch the back of his head.