Dylan
The door slams shut behind me, the ghosts of what just happened following me into the kitchen as I try to push them away.
Meredith kissed me.
It’s not the first time a girl has thrown herself at me, but it’s the first time it’s felt like that...
Shit.
Grabbing a whiskey, I head to my room, hoping to shower and get an early night. The bed is neatly made, and instantly I miss her.
Merry.
Why did she kiss me? She wasn’t drunk. Maybe she was overwhelmed with emotion. People get like that at Christmas.
But it was when I asked her why she wanted me to stay that she kissed me.
Her soft lips on mine, the way she stood on tiptoes to reach me…
But it wouldn’t have been fair of me to kiss her back because she’s been hurt too. If I’d have kissed her back, she would have thought that meant something, and she’d be right.
So I didn’t.
I swill the whiskey around in my glass, wondering what she is feeling like now.
Rejected, probably.
She’s not Goldie.
The thought comes from nowhere but my deep subconscious, and I swallow the whiskey down, pushing the thought away.
She’s not Goldie, and that’s perfectly fine because I don’t want that again. The problem is, I don’t want anything again.
When Merry is in my arms, I feel like I want to protect her, and I have a desire to make her happy. I’ll admit that much.
But, and there’s always a but, I can’t be her rebound guy.
Soon she’ll be returning to the city, and I’ll be long forgotten. I’m sure she’ll have countless guys to choose from up there.
The prickle of jealousy is annoying, but it’s probably only because she’s been staying with me.
Playing cards together.
Going on walks as she struggles to walk in my oversized wellies.
Making her toast and tea exactly how she likes it.
Keeping each other warm in my bed.
I groan, closing my eyes and falling into my bed.
Stop this.
But I can’t. Because now I’m wondering how she feels.
Rejected, probably.
She shouldn’t have kissed me. The amount of times I’ve wanted to kiss her and I haven’t, purely because I know nothing will happen between us.
