Page 64 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
Instead, he clammed up, his eyes growing cold and far, far away. He slid his feet back to his side of the table. No longer within comfortable kicking distance. An invisible wall rose between us.
That same icy wall I’d met at the barbecue.
It wasn’t until it was in place that I realized how open we’d been before it.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, regret pulling at my heartstrings.
What had I said wrong?
The…the watch?
What was so special about it? It was nice, yes. Designer, like I’d said. But upon closer inspection, it looked rather old. Chips in the glass, and if I didn’t know any better, the time was incorrect.
I suppose it didn’t matter, though.
Because I’d obviously fucked up.
This was far from comfortable. And way too close to the way I’d felt when I was with Brendon. I drew into myself, staring at the table, willing the chill in the air to dissipate.
“Sorry,” Alex said, his voice less stiff than before. A pause. “Can I…touch you?”
I nodded. “You don’t need to ask.”
He certainly hadn’t earlier.
His hand found mine. His skin was colder than before. I relaxed a bit, finding the courage to lift my gaze from the crack in the table I’d been looking at. The ice in Alex’s eyes melted by the second.
“It’s not you,” he whispered, the reassurance helping immensely to soothe my panic. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Alex observed me, a frown on his lips—not because of my comment this time—but because of the way I’d reacted to his displeasure.
I knew I’d shown my cards too obviously.
My fear of retaliation.
He was observant.
He’d seen.
His thumb swiped steadily along the back of my knuckles. A shaky smile spread across his lips. “The watch is a sore spot,” he confessed. “Wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”
I nodded, a sharp, jerky motion.
I wanted to ask himwhy, but I didn’t. One good afternoon didn’t make us any more than strangers. We certainly weren’t friends. And if a single mention of the watch could turn flirty, chatty Alex into a block of ice, then asking him outright about it would be inappropriate.
I’d called him brain-damaged. I’d stabbed him. I’d taken everything he’d given me and responded in kind. But…I didn’t actually want toupsethim or make him uncomfortable.
If the swipe of his thumb and his reassurance were any indicator, that feeling was mutual. He’d snapped himself out of whatever had struck him, just to comfort me.
“I won’t bring it up again,” I promised, my voice far weaker than I liked it to be.
“You can,” Alex said immediately. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Had I been scared?
I…
Fuck.
“I wasn’t scared,” I lied.
