My face feels like it’s on fire and my light-headedness returns. But this time, it has nothing to do with food or smells or feeling sick. I’m catapulted back in time to our night together and this isn’t the first time my thoughts have drifted back there.
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Hmm?” I ask, willing my brain to stop fantasizing and to start making sense of what he’s saying.
“I like you,” JT says, half a smile pulling at his lips.
I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. “Oh, I like?—”
“And I want you,” he interrupts, letting the words roll off his lips like that’s a totally normal thing to say to the person sitting next to you on a park bench.
“Oh,” I stammer again.
“Go out with me, Maggie.”
His voice is low and lazy, his stance relaxed. There’s no pressure in his words, no game in his play. He hasn’t said anything that isn’t true. I’m sure I’m just as bad at hiding my desire from him as I am at being sneaky with my stolen glances. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t noticed the way he looks at me, too. Our attraction is mutual. But that’s as far as it can go for me.
“I can’t,” I say, turning to face him fully.
He quirks a brow at my answer. “You can’t? Did you join the sisterhood recently? Get married?”
“My grandmother just jumped for joy up in heaven at the mere mention of me becoming a nun, so thanks for that,” I quip. “But now I have to tell her the truth and let her down. And no, I’m not married, nor do I ever intend to be. A relationship is not on the horizon for me. I don’t date,” I explain.
Once again, he arches a brow, prompting me to elaborate.But there’s not much more to say, so I just shrug and repeat myself. “I don’t date. It’s nothing personal.”
“It’s completely personal,” he argues, but there’s no heat behind his words. If anything, he seems kind of fascinated. “You don’t date? At all?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
“Ever?” he asks, like he’s interviewing me for a feature article on things that don’t make any sense.
“Not anymore,” I explain. “I did, but it ended in a fiery blaze that burned my life down. So, I don’t do it anymore.” My explanation is oversimplified, but it’s also the absolute truth. Clay was my first and only serious boyfriend. I’d had a few boyfriends, a few hookups. But when we met freshman year of college, something just clicked. I figured we’d be together forever. It turns out I was wrong about a lot of things.
JT is looking at me like he doesn’t quite understand, so like any good mathematician, I try to explain the answer in a way that’s a little more relatable. “It’s like this: say you love sushi, but then you get a bad order, and it makes you sick. It’s probable that you’ll swear off sushi forever. You can’t ever enjoy it again because you can only think about how sick it made you. Your friends still love sushi, and that’s great. Good for them. They don’t understand why you won’t try it again. But there’s no way. Every time you even think about trying it, you picture…well, you get the point.” My stomach sours at the thought and if I don’t switch subjects soon, my analogy is going to get way more graphic. “Anyway, it’s just something I don’t do any more.”
JT studies me, and I’m afraid he’s going to want to dissect the spoiled raw fish theory I just rambled on about and…yuck. I definitely should have found a different analogy.
“You ok, Maggie? You’re looking a little green.”
I start to nod, but that just makes the world spin. “I’m fine. I just…”
He hands me his water bottle and it’s perfectly cold to the touch. I know this because I press it against my forehead and then against the side of my neck. He whips his hoodie off to reveal a fitted white tee, which he also removes. Deftly, he takes the water bottle from my hand and douses the t-shirt with a splash, before handing the open bottle back to me. “Take a drink, just a little at a time,” he says as he presses the cool, damp cloth to the back of my neck, and I let my eyes flutter closed in relief. In seconds, I’m starting to feel better. Well, if not better, exactly, then at least less like I’m going to hurl.
I open my eyes to see a small pack of pretzels in his outstretched hand.
“Trust me,” he says.
I don’t, but again, it’s nothing personal. I don’t trust anyone. I can thank The Traitor and The Tramp for putting the last nail in that coffin. But instead of delivering a heartfelt speech about the demise of my ability to put my belief in someone else’s promises, I take the salty snack that’s offered and crunch down on two pretzels.
For the next few minutes, I take small sips and eat some more pretzels. Before too long, the ringing in my ears has stopped, and I no longer feel like I’m on a carnival ride. That’s when I realize we’re not on the bench anymore, or out in the sun.
“I didn’t carry you this time,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I would have, but you walked the ten or so feet on your own steam, so I figured I’d save the display of muscles for the next time you need medical assistance. Speaking of, you sure you’re okay? There’s a med staff on campus. It’s not far and?—”
“I’m fine,” I say, because I am. “Embarrassed, but fine. I promise. I skipped breakfast and I’m just feeling a little off.”
“There’s no reason to be embarrassed, Maggie,” he says, his voice sincere. “We’re friends, right?”
“Definitely,” I say.
