Her nose wrinkles. “Um no—I was just trying to be supportive.”

“You would go running with me to be supportive?”

“Um…no, but I would hold the stopwatch while you ran around the block, throw a cup of water on you when you ran past?”

God she’s perfect.

Clever and beautiful and smart. With perfect lips and perfect tits, she’s got me all kinds of fucked in the head.

We’re friends and anti-lovers, with sexual tension chucked into one fucked up non-relationship relationship that’s all my doing because I said I couldn’t commit.

I suck so hard at this.

“Hey Jameson?”

“Yes, Sebastian?”

God, she’s been using my name nonstop lately, and I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of hearing my name slip from her lips.

“I’ve…” I gulp down my nerves. “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

Her face turns fire engine red in the same instant a sigh escapes her lips. “You’ve said as much.”

“You cheat on me.”

Her brows shoot up. “Say what?”

My back hits the mattress and my arm flops over my face to conceal my eyes. “In my dreams, you’re my girlfriend and you’re cheating on me. With one of my roommates.”

The room is silent except for the ping of a Facebook notification on my laptop.

“Which one?”

“Which one what?”

“Which roommate am I cheating on you with? Please tell me it’s not that asshole Zeke or whatever the brute’s name is, because no way would that happen. Not even in a dream.”

“It’s not Zeke.” My chuckle rumbles the mattress. “It’s Elliot.”

“Elliot?” I hear her smiling. “Aww, he’s the quiet, nice one?”

Aww?

I uncover my face to peer up at her, eyes squinting. She’s sitting on the bed cross-legged, a shit-eating grin on her face. “You really need to stop referring to guys as nice. We hate that shit.”

“Good thing I’ve never called you nice.” Jameson pokes me in the arm with a teasing forefinger.

I scowl when she pulls away. “I’ve noticed.”

“Are you pouting?”

“No.”

“’Cause it sounds like you’re pouting.”

“Pfft. What do I care if you don’t think I’m nice? Like I give a shit.”

Jameson goes radio silent, peering down at me with those big, blue eyes.

Eventually, she says, “Liar.”

I refuse to look at her. Study the ceiling that could use a fresh coat of paint. The fan covered in dust that could use a good scrub. The cracked drywall in the corner.

Everywhere but at her.

She nudges my bicep. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

Because you make me feel things I don’t want to feel. Feelings I don’t know how to manage, don’t know how to deal with.

Get rid of.

Keep.

“Look Oz, just because you had a dream about me—that doesn’t mean anything.”

That gets my attention. “You don’t believe dreams mean something?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” I push myself up on my elbows and rise to a sitting position. “The whole thing is fucked. Up.”

She scrunches up her nose distastefully like I’ve insulted her. “Why? Because I was in your dream instead of some blonde wrestling groupie? Someone with huge boobs who requires zero effort? Gee, sorry to disappoint you.”

She’s still not getting it. “No James, it’s because I dreamed you were my girlfriend and you were cheating on me.” The words get stuck in my throat, bound as tightly as the mounting jumble of knots in my stomach.

Goddamn knots.

I’m gonna puke.

“You consider it a nightmare that I was your girlfriend?” Her voice comes out slowly. Small.

Hurt and confused, latching onto the least important detail.

Typical female.

I twist my torso to face her. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. The dream was fucked up because—shit. I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying any more.” She’s quiet so I fill the silence with more jabbering. “It’s the same, reoccurring dream: I come home from out of town and I walk in on you boning my roommate. Hard. We argue and fight, then you cry and I kick you out. The first time it happened, I was shaken awake on the bus by a teammate; he heard me crying like a goddamn baby. How fucked up is that?”

“You were crying? Because I was your fake girlfriend who fake cheated?” Her head gives a tiny, confused shake. “Why would that upset you?”

“Because it didn’t feel fake.” I’m whining.

“I don’t understand. You don’t even like me like that—why would you dream about me?”

Spoken like it’s something I can control.

“Don’t you see? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” My eyes float back to the ceiling as a puff of air expels from my chest. “Maybe I do.”

Those three little words ripple in the air, tension thickening the atmosphere.

“But surely…not like that,” she drawls, sounding cautious and doubtful, uncertainty etched across her pretty, perfect brows. I glance at her sharply.

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Would it be the worst thing in the world if I did like you? I’m a great catch you know.”

Tags: Sara Ney How to Date a Douchebag Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net