Every Kiss(71)
“You okay?” A look of concern sweeps across his face.
“Yeah.” Not really. “I’m just thirsty.” And I need to pull back the reins a little bit. Being in his arms fills me with false hope, and knowing that there’s absolutely no truth to it—and never will be—is gnawing at me. He’s not the only one who needs to keep the distance, the safety net of protection from a broken heart. I need it to salvage any shred of sanity I have left when it comes to Wesley Baxter.
He keeps his hand on my lower back until we slide into the booth. I pick up my glass of water and suck on the straw greedily, enjoying the cool liquid soothing my dry throat. Shane and Makenna are a little too wrapped up in each other to notice we’ve come back to the table, and even if they did notice, their tongues are way too busy to say so. Wes is clearly uncomfortable. He has his head resting in his hand, effectively blocking his view of them. I guess this strikes me as odd because he’s usually so unflappable. Maybe it’s just because it’s his brother, and that fact makes it a little weird.
I wad up a napkin and toss it at them, landing it exactly where their lips meet. “You two think you can stop that for a few minutes. I think I’m ready to go.”
Makenna looks down at her watch. “But it’s only eleven! You can’t go home at eleven on your twenty-first birthday.”
“What I want more than anything right now is to shower, put on some comfy clothes, and maybe drink some wine on the balcony before bed. That will make my birthday complete.”
She slumps, but I suspect she’s a little relieved. After not seeing Shane much lately, I’m sure she can’t wait to get back and have a little more “private time” with him. “If that’s what you want.”
No, not even close.
WHAT A WEIRD birthday this has been. This is the first birthday that my mom hasn’t cooked homemade cinnamon rolls for me. This is the first birthday that my family didn’t throw a party for me. The first time I haven’t had my grandma’s chocolate cake, and the first year I didn’t blow out candles. I guess this is all part of making my way into adulthood.
Instead, I’ve spent my day with my best friend, who decided to give me a band t-shirt and an infuriatingly complicated man—who I can’t have—for my birthday. I ordered wine with dinner for the first time. I danced my ass off in a club with my friends. I had a lot of fun today.
But as I lie down in my bed, I can’t help feeling like something was missing from my day. I’ve showered and dried my hair. I put on my softest t-shirt. The bed is just the right firmness. But I don’t feel right. So much so that it’s depressing. Then again, I’ve felt this way ever since I hurled my shoes at Wes today. Having him here is really eating at me. We can only be friends, even if both of us want more than that. I understand that, and I now understand why he’s that way. I can honestly say that, given his past experiences, I don’t really blame him for feeling that way, for feeling like he can’t trust a woman.
It’s the unrelenting pull, though, that didn’t seem to get the memo. I’m drawn to him in a way that I’ve never been drawn to a man before. There’s a constant nagging craving for him, clawing and twisting and tearing at me inside. It’s like being stuck in a nightmare where you’re running but you never can get anywhere; you’re stuck in place. I’m trying to run away. I’m trying to keep the distance that we desperately need, but I stay firmly planted where I am, never getting any farther away. If anything, I’m only drawn closer. Every time he smiles at me, every time his gaze meets mine, and every time his fingertips touch my skin.
A soft rap at the door startles me. “Yes?”
Wes peeks his head into the door. “Can I come in for a minute?”
“Sure,” I agree, sitting up in bed. The moonlight streaming through the balcony doors casts a hint of silver luminescence through the room, so I can see him well enough to notice he’s recently showered and changed into his pajamas, too. “What do you have behind your back?”
“Shh.” He crawls onto the bottom of the bed, sitting cross-legged with one hand still behind his back. “Close your eyes until I tell you to open them.”
I start to protest, but he cocks his head to the side with his eyebrows raised, daring me to provoke him. “Fine.”
When my eyes fall closed, I feel a slight shift on the mattress and sense a hint of sweetness in the air. A sharp rasping noise is followed by the pungent scent of phosphorus from a lit match. I know exactly what he’s doing now, and it’s hard to suppress my smile. Why does he have to be so damn amazing sometimes? I think this was a lot easier when he was intentionally trying to make me hate him.