I threw another sock at him and growled.
"You're not fooling anyone, you know that, right?" he said. "You always try to act mean and push people away, but you're not. Your family is wonderful. You're secretly a sweetheart — I know you are — and you don't hate me. You try to tell yourself that so you don't have to think about the mates thing. Well, don't think about it, then. But don't waste time hating me, either."
"It's my time to waste, asshole." I launched myself at him. I didn't care; I didn't. I wasn't ever going to touch him again, but how could I fight him if I didn't?
He landed hard underneath me, and I know I caught him by surprise, but pretty soon he was scuffling and punching, holding his own. He stayed underneath me, when usually he'd have flipped me off him and ended up on top. I wondered if he was holding back, trying to be a gentleman or whatever, and that made me madder than ever. I redoubled my efforts, growling at him.
We scuffled and fought, rolling around, punching. It was no rougher than usual, but no gentler, either. Nobody kissed anybody; nobody got seriously hurt.
There was a knock at the door. We both stopped, panting hard. "You boys okay in there?" Mom called with trepidation.
"Yes," I said.
"Your son is beating me up!" Russ called in a teasing voice.
"Shut up. I am not!"
"He is. He's a bully!"
"Okay, well, if you the two of you want snacks, Rosa made a cake. I'll let you go now." She moved off with deliberately loud steps.
I looked down at Russ, still underneath me, grinning and triumphant.
"She thinks we're having sex," he informed me.
"Oh, how wrong she is, then."
"I don't know. You can't keep your hands off me, obviously. It's almost like—"
I punched him, interrupting his annoying speech, and made him flinch.
"Not so rough. You'll spoil my good looks."
"There are none to spoil," I snapped, and then scrambled free of him, up and away, huffing.
My sweatpants were stretched out of shape and disarrayed. I tugged them back up over my hips where they'd been sliding down, and hoped he hadn't noticed.
He wolf-whistled at me.
I flung a shirt at his head. "Shut up!"
It was going to feel like a long visit, even if it wasn't.
#
"Sweetheart, are you really doing okay?" Mom's expression was worried.
I glanced at her, then away. I shrugged. I didn't know what to tell her. Whatever I said would sound like I was sulking, or else would worry her — or show her just how petty I could be. I was ashamed of myself for wanting revenge. More and more, I was finding I couldn't actually hate Russ.
I understood all too well. I'd been eating my heart out over Sahil for a long fucking time. While I'd never turned my anger and frustration onto him, maybe I would have if I hadn't had the balm of engine repair to fall back on. And if he hadn't been so fucking nice to me. Sahil was never rough or mean; he was always gentle and appreciative. He valued me, even if it hadn't felt like enough.
But Russ? I didn't value him. I wasn't nice to him. He picked on me and poked at my raw spots till sometimes I couldn't bear being in the same state as him. We fought and scuffled and were almost always in conflict.
If he really felt the way I did about Sahil, or something similar, then I could understand him maybe losing it a little bit. Going a bit nuts. After all, he didn't have the resources I did: a friendship with the person he liked (me, in this case), or the relief of working on engines. I had both of those things, and I could still sometimes only barely make it.
Feeling things for someone — it fuckinghurt.
That didn't make it okay for him to pick on me, and it didn't really make me like him any better. But my grandiose plans for revenge had started to look stupid, petty, small and mean-spirited. Which, of course, they were. How was I supposed to enjoy hurting someone I'd been hurting all along without realizing it?
