Almost. Maybe.
I shook my head no.
“No?” she mused. “You’re probably right. You’re very good friends. And you know what they say about friends getting together.”
“What do they say?”
“That it never works out. Except of course, your Uncle Jackson and Aunt Lola, they were friends growing up. Until they weren’t. So that’s not really a comparison. Then of course, there’s Monica and Chandler.”
“Monica and Chandler? FromFriends? Mom, those are fictional characters!”
“Hmm. Yes. Well, it’s a good thing this wasn’t a date then.”
“It wasn’t,” I insisted.
Not when he picked me up looking freaking smoking hot in a shirt and tie. Not when he asked me to dance. Not when he…
Ugh. I already knew I was in for a long night. There would be no shutting off that moment in a loop in my brain. My fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. His hands squeezing my waist.
My thigh brushing against his impossibly large erection.
Nick was…gifted.
There were times I resented never talking about the night of my birthday. I’d gone to school and then to France and I’d never said a word to anyone. So, I never had anyone I could break down all the things he’d done and said that made me fall in love with him in the first place. I never got to put into words how much his rejection had taken from me. There’d been no commiserating over ice cream or stalking his Instagram. I’d tucked that night and my relationship with Nick into a little ball and buried it.
And so, there was no one who could help me double and triple guess his actions tonight.
Asking me to dance to a slow song? Pulling me into his body.
What the hell was that if not intentionally messing with my head? With my heart?
He knew he couldn’t do that.
Didn’t he?
“It’s past my bedtime,” Mom announced, slapping a hand on my knee and pushing herself off the couch. “Sleep well, baby girl.”
She kissed the top of my head and made her way up the stairs, every step creaking as she climbed. After that, the house was strangely quiet. It was just me. Alone with my racing thoughts and Nick’s erection imprinted on my thigh and in my brain.
I got mad at him all over again. We were going to have to talk about this. I was going to have to say things like:
You shattered my heart once and I got over it, but I won’t survive a second assault.
You can’t look at me like you want me. You can’t make me want to kiss you. Because I do. I still do. I will always, always want you. I’ve just learned to live with not having you.
You can’t give me hope, Nick. Because I will carry the torch for as long as you tell me and that’s not fair.
All of that was going to make me seem sad and pathetic and I was mad at him for that too.
There were other options. Ignore that it happened. Pretend I wasn’t affected at all. Start wearing my prettiest outfits with my best perfume to work, to make him suffer with lust and desire only to leave him entirely unsatisfied.
That sounded like fun.
Except the truth was the truth and I knew myself too well. I wasn’t tough enough for that.
Which meant we were going to have the talk.
Monday Morning
