“I don’t get it,” I whisper. But I’m lying…because maybe I do.
“I’m your fake boyfriend, remember?”
My cheeks burn with shame. So I misunderstood this.
“I’m not—” I feel him step back. “We’re not…”
“Not what,” I force myself to whisper as I straighten my spine.
“I’m not really…good for you.”
“What do you mean?”
He laughs, but it’s a cold sound. “You don’t want me thinking about you. This way.”
I turn around to face him. “What do you mean?”
Light from the bedroom door spills all around him, making him look like a shadow.
“Why would you say that?”
He shuts his eyes. His hand comes to his forehead, and he rubs his temple on the hurt side of his face.
“Because of that?” I whisper.
“No.” It’s almost groaned. “Because of other shit.” He says that darkly, as if it should speak for itself.
“You don’t like me?”
His jaw tics. “I like you.”
“You don’t…want me?”
“Oh, I want you.”
I take a small step toward him.
“You’re fucking beautiful, Elise. And you’re all good. You have a good heart. That’s what my Nonna would have said.”
“And you don’t?” I’m close enough so I can touch him, so I do. I wrap a hand around his wrist and pull his arm toward me. His hand balls loosely into a fist, and I press it just under my throat.
He shakes his head. My eyes fall to where his Adam’s apple bobs, and so I almost miss the way his eyes gleam. “No.”
I hug him. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s too much, but it feels right. He goes still, his body rigid as I press my forehead to his shirt. I can smell detergent…and him. “I don’t think that’s true at all,” I tell him, with my eyes squeezed shut. “You’re very good. Remember Pandy? That was the nicest thing someone has done for me in ages.”
My throat aches as I listen to his heart pound underneath the cotton of his T-shirt. This is a boy who lives with misery, the same way I do. I can feel it. When he smiles, it’s real and kind. I can tell he’s good.
He starts to breathe a little faster. When he steps back, I let him.
“I’m sorry.” His words are thick.
“For what?”
I can feel him moving toward the door a half second before he does. So I step closer.
“C’mon. Stay out here. We can talk about Anne Rice or Stephen King, or anything you want.”
He blinks twice, as if he’s waking up. “Do you want me to?”
“Yes, please.”
He nods, staring past me. His jaw flexes.
“Come sit with me.”
His eyes are somber, but he does as I ask. He sits beside me on the stone floor of the balcony. When I hold my hand out, he takes it, threading his warm fingers through mine. He looks at his lap, rubs at his knee.
“Did you hurt your knee at the game?”
“Last year.”
“Playing football?”
He nods. He won’t look at me, even as he presses our joined hands to his thigh.
“Do you like playing?”
“Yeah.” He still looks slightly dazed, but this time, his gaze catches mine for just a second before dropping back to our hands. “I like the team.”
I squeeze his hand. “I like your hands. They’re big and a lot warmer than mine.”
His fingers rub mine gently.
I close my eyes. “Like that.”Chapter FiveLucaShe’s got her body leaned against mine, and I’m holding her hand.
I don’t know why. I got freaked out and acted weird and tried to tell her. Tell her…how I am.
When she said she likes those Sleeping Beauty books, it got to me. To my dick specifically. And all I could think was what would happen if I let myself push things. If I let myself…have what I want.
Dirty books or not, it turns out Elise is pretty damn nice, which is good and bad for me. Good because she already seems to have forgotten that I was spazzing not five minutes ago. Bad for me because she’s soft. And she smells good.
Elise. She likes balconies at night and naughty books. She’s got nice friends and a nice house and parents who might be dicks but it’s safe for her there, I bet. I think about that, and it makes me think of what I told her about my eye.
No, no, nope. I don’t let myself go there. But part of me does. It’s like a penny you throw in a fountain and it flutters near the top then sinks because sinking is what metal does in water. Part of me sinks. I can’t get that part to come back up—even for her. I know I should walk away. It’s a bad idea for me to get to know her.
But I don’t.
I’m always thinking of myself in some way or another. Like right now. I love having her up against me. How her head feels on my shoulder. So I tell myself that she’s enjoying it too. I’m rubbing her hand, and she likes it. So it’s okay.