Page 70 of Personal Foul
Her laugh cuts through the room, loud and harsh. “I’mpunishingyou? Seriously? After everything you’ve done to me, you thinkthis”—she gestures wildly between us—“is punishment?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets so I don’t reach for her again. “Fine. It’s not punishment. But can you at least let me finish? You asked since when have I liked you. I’m trying to answer that I’ve always liked you, and even if I also liked getting a reaction out of you, that’s not the main thing I feelnow.”
My last sentence seems to finally get through to her, because she freezes, straightens slowly, and surveys me with narrowed eyes. “And how do you feel now?”
The question is a warning as much as it is a trap. But the only way forward is with completely transparent honesty.
“I really like you. I want to make up for all the bad shit I’ve done—which I’m pretty sure I’ve told you already—and I want us to be friends.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Charity
“Friends,” I repeat, crossing my arms, my pen and highlighter clutched in one hand. “You want us to be friends.”
He nods, looking relieved that I seem to be finally on the same page, and pulls his hands out of his pockets. “Look, Charity, Spitfire, like I said, you’re different than anyone I’ve ever known. I don’t feel like I have to fill some predetermined role with you either. I don’t have to be Dylan Thompson, Phil and Cynthia Thompson’s son, with all the weight and expectations that carries. I get to just be Dylan, reformed asshole.” I raise my eyebrow like,Are you sure about that?And he grins. “Okay,reformingasshole. Being around you challenges me to be a better person. And I like that. I like that I hold your secrets, and not as some kind of currency to be used against you or held over you, but because it feels good to be trusted. I like that this is the place you wanted to come when you needed to relax and get work done because you know I’ll give you what you need.”
I swallow, my shoulders moving away from my ears as he speaks. As much as his admission that he liked being around me because provoking me entertained him pissed me off, that whole speech mollifies me. And he’s right. He did tell me some of that before. I’ve just been waiting for him to try to screw me over again, that I jumped at the first sign he might be doing that.
“Please stay,” he says, tentatively reaching for me and rubbing my arm. “Watch a movie. Or a TV show. Something. I’d hate for you to leave like this, still mostly angry. If you go now, I worry you’ll never come over again.”
I study him for a long moment, still hesitant to trust him. But his face is open and honest. And realistically, he didn’t have to tell me everything he just did. He could’ve glossed over the first part, or just not mentioned it at all and said he started liking me when we went axe throwing or something. Instead, he held nothing back, even though he had nothing to gain by doing so.
Nodding, I let my arms drop, setting my books and pens on the coffee table. “Okay. A show. I still have reading to finish, and I don’t want to stay out too late.”
“Do you have early classes tomorrow?” he asks, moving to a basket next to the entertainment center and pulling out a fuzzy gray blanket that he shakes out. Sitting on the middle spot, he pats my seat, and when I sit down, spreads the blanket over us.
“Not too early. But I need to start looking for a job before my first class. Maybe it won’t really make a difference, but I figure that if I send in an application and resume as soon as something hits the job boards, that has to show my excitement and positive attitude, right?”
Dylan grins at me, stretching out an arm along the couch behind me. “Sure. I can see that. Can’t hurt, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Alright.” He picks up the remote. “I promise not to keep you out too late. But it’s only eight, so we have at least a couple of hours, right?”
I screw up my face. “Yeah. I can handle that.”
Picking up the remote, he turns on the TV. “What do you want to watch?”
We decide on an older comedy we’ve both seen before but enjoy, because I don’t want to have to think too hard about what we’re watching, and Dylan seems happy with my suggestion.
As the movie plays, his hand moves from the back of the couch to my shoulder. Slowly at first, a finger caressing me once. Again. Then his hand cups the point of my shoulder, gently urging me closer to him.
When I glance at him, he flashes me a grin and shifts lower, making it more comfortable for me to lean into him.
“Friends, huh?” I murmur, and his chuckle disturbs the baby hairs by my hairline.
Somehow, as things progress, we end up basically horizontal. He’s turned so his head is propped on the arm of the couch, his feet up on the couch, and I’m draped over his chest like a blanket, his heartbeat a steady thump under one ear, his hand splayed across my back.
This is far beyond the bounds of normal friendship. I’m sure he’s as aware of it as I am, and yet he’s orchestrated this entire thing, probably from the start of the movie. Probably from before the movie. When he suggested a movie, this was his goal, at minimum.
I really like you.His words from earlier echo in my head.I want us to be friends.Maybe he and I have very different definitions of friends. Or he wants to be something more, like friends with benefits.
How do I feel about that, though?
Still conflicted, but the longer I lay on him, the warmth of his body permeating through me, the memory of his kisses replaying in my head …
The more okay with the idea I become.
