Long after we’ve finished eating, we’re still sitting in the booth, talking about random things, including the oddest tattoos he’s ever given. Who wants a porcupine tattoo on their vagina?
“It had an inscription on it, too,” he says, laughing lightly.
“Oh no. What was it?” I ask around a chuckle.
“No pricks allowed.”
I snort, and he laughs while also groaning; it’s a unique sound.
“I tried to talk her out of it,” he says, shaking his head as the waitress side eyes us for taking up her booth for so long.
It’s already getting dark because we’ve been here for hours. “Can we carry this conversation back to my place before we end up in a murder/mystery book of our own? Killed and dumped by the waitress?” I ask Chase.
He chokes on a laugh while glancing her way, and she glares daggers at us.
“Yeah,” he says, still snickering. He tosses down forty dollars before I can try to pay, and he gestures for me to follow him.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out twenty more dollars and toss it onto the table to make up for a few tips she might have missed. Chase doesn’t notice. As soon as I reach his side, he’s lacing our fingers together.
I stare at the connection, trying to decide if it’s an innocent gesture or more. I’m not allowed to have more. Especially not with Chase James. Physical contact with anyone is a serious no-no.
Desperately wishing I was normal, I fight off the training I’ve had for years about physical contact and allow him to hold my hand because of how much I love it. Feeling connected to someone is what I’ve missed most, and I almost feel starved just for that contact.
Brief hugs and such are allowed, even though they’re still rare. My mind understands them as greetings or farewells. Holding hands is crossing a line I’m not supposed to.
We walk to his truck, and he opens the passenger door for me. Instead of letting me climb in, he picks me up at my waist and lifts me into the seat, smiling at me when we’re almost eye-level.
“It’s been a while since I got to ride with you in the front seat.”
This truck is definitely nicer than the one his dad had when we were younger. It’s also cleaner and smells better too.
Chase leans closer, letting his breath kiss my lips, but keeping his own lips just out of reach. This is definitely not innocent.
“I’ve missed you, Mika. Tell me how long you’re staying here before I get too attached and forget you deserve more than Hayden,” he says in a sad whisper, causing my heart to clench.
No times. No dates. No schedules. Those are the rules. Vagueness is key. That’s part of the therapy. No exacts. All estimates. And only an estimate if I’m positive.
“I don’t plan on leaving,” is what I say. It’s technically vague.
His grip on my sides gets tighter, and his lips just barely brush mine. “Don’t tease me,” he says quietly.
“Chase, I can’t—”
He pulls back abruptly and clears his throat. “Right. Sorry. I’m moving way too fast. Especially after finding out what you saw. Shit. Sorry,” he rambles, shutting the door to the truck as I nurse my whiplash.
He climbs in on the opposite side, and I avoid eye contact, feeling awkward now.
“Chase, I—”
“It’s fine, Mika,” he says, smiling over at me. “I just reacted to hearing you were staying here. How about we try to be friends?”
He wipes his hands on his jeans like they’re sweating, and I blow out a breath.
“Friends sounds perfect,” I lie, hating the taste of the words on my tongue.
Chase James and I will never be just friends.
It’s just not possible for us. But logically, neither is anything else.