Am I in love with her? I hate to think so. Am I that hedonistic? Do I have that little self-control?
The fact that it even crosses my mind is enough to make me shudder despite the temperature of the water dousing me from above. I thought I had the love and commitment issue covered. Thought I had a shield up to prevent me from having serious feelings towards anyone ever again. But even with Britt, I didn’t feel this gone. I just know that when I think about the future, I associate with Mariah and it’s cast in gold.
It makes me sound like a pussy I know. But it’s the truth. And whether I’m a pussy or not doesn’t make it any less true.
In a perfect world, she would be the one for me. Hell, even in this imperfect world, she’s the one for me. But the one we live in is colored by an accident from years ago that made me less of a man than so many of my contemporaries. And while the thought of her with someone else makes me want to rip them apart limb by limb, I also want to smack myself when I consider what it will do to her if I keep up this charade.
She’ll have to decide at some point whether she wants me or wants the future she’s always imagined. Sure, I could let her decide as Blaire and Peck suggested. But that’s the biggest dickhead move—to force her to choose. To make her be the bad guy. Fuck that.
There’s no way I can put her in a position where she can’t win.
I’m not stupid. I know the shaded signals, what the meaning is behind her touch, the look in her eyes, the smile that she only gives me. She’s falling in love as fast as I am. And, if I truly love her, and I’m inclined to think I do, I can’t ask her to make that choice.
Twenty-Five
Lance
My bag hits the chair with a thud.
“Brandon, you sit over there,” I say, pointing to a little table in the corner of the Family and Consumer Sciences Room. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you unless it starts with, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Gibson’ and is followed by a question pertinent to the subject matter you should be studying as defined by the State of Illinois. Got it?”
“This is gonna blow,” he groans.
“It’s detention. It’s supposed to blow. That’s the point.”
He tosses his books on the desk and collapses in the seat like he’s been sentenced to the electric chair. I toy with the idea of pointing out he’s being a baby and cause and effect and all that jazz, but choose to pick my battles with this kid instead. This isn’t the one to fight.
I left the door to the room open on purpose. With each squeak or tap of soles down the hall, my eyes flicker to the opening to see if it’s Mariah.
It’s funny how routines become your norm. Then when change comes to your habits, even simple little differences, you feel thrown off in every aspect of your life. Tugging at my tie, I keep my gaze on the empty the hall and hope she walks by. She does not.
I haven’t had a drink since the night with the tequila and Peck, yet I feel drunk. Or hungover. Just a cloudy-headed haze that I can’t clear out. Decision making skills are one of my finer assets. I pick a direction and go. But I’m so unsure about what I should do with Mariah right now that I question my sanity.
As my tires hit the asphalt parking lot this morning, I was adamant I was backing off. Not being a dick, just giving this thing between us some time to cool down. Then as my ears picked up the lunch bell this afternoon, I found myself standing outside of the library warring about whether I should go in or not.
I did, but by the time I made that decision, half of the lunch period was over. It was just enough time to wet my whistle. I left her office needing to see her again but knowing more than ever I really, really shouldn’t.
“Ollie,” I say, spinning around. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t sound so excited.” Patting his shoulder as I walk by, I enter one of the little kitchenettes lining the back wall. Each kitchen station is separated by a counter top. “Did Ms. Holden give you a recipe or something to go off of?”
“It’s right here.” He points at an index card on the counter.
“You mean the instructions to bake a cake fit on that thing? She did give you instructions, right?”
Ollie grins. “That’s all I’m allowed to use. No online resources, no video tutorials.”
“She’s hardcore,” I say. I slip my phone, that I’d pulled out to look up a cake baking how-to, back in my pocket.