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I learned he was accepted into every college he applied to, including two Ivy League schools, but his dream and the one he’s choosing to attend is the one not far from here, the university three generations of the Black family have attended.
“I want to stay close to home. I don’t think my mom would handle it well if I moved too far away for college. I’m her only child,” he said with a grin that softened into a smile when he looked at me. “And that means I won’t be far from you either.”
I sigh dreamily, pushing off the counter and going into my library to plop into my overstuffed chair. I pick up the book on my side table and pull out the bookmark, but replace it and put it back down when I realize I’m not retaining any of the words, because I can’t stop thinking of Nathaniel.
Is it crazy to be this infatuated with someone who just yesterday I couldn’t wait to spend the weekend away from? No doubt.
Is it possible that all those overwhelming feelings I ever had when it came to Nate was actually arousal I was fighting, because I thought it was wrong to feel it? Maybe.
And what kind of person does it make me that I’d be aroused by someone who tried to taunt and intimidate me every day? Normal, I guess, especially in Nathaniel’s case. Aren’t little girls always taught that when a boy picks on them, it means they like them? I always thought that was asinine to teach girls to accept a boy’s bullying; if he likes you, he should show you respect and that he cares about you, not be mean. But haven’t I always said that what Nate did to me wasn’t quite bullying? And come to find out, he respects the hell out of me, and that’s why he always cleans up after everyone in the library, not because of his OCD like I thought.
So it may seem like this is happening super-fast, but in reality, we’ve been playing this cat-and-mouse game for months. Months of—albeit fucked-up—flirting. Months of me coming home and thinking about him constantly. He made sure of that with his daily parting words. And it hadn’t even been all bad thoughts either. I admired Nathaniel. He was so smart, so athletic, so undeniably attractive. I couldn’t help but look up to him, and not because of his towering height. There was no denying he was going to be someone important one day, someone people respected, and I just couldn’t for the life of me figure out why he wasted so much time picking on me. Every. Single. Day.
Now I know.
He wanted me. He had feelings for me he didn’t understand, had never felt before. And combine that with having these Dominant urges deep inside him that he didn’t know how to express, not to mention his OCD thrown in to muddy things up, he just had way too much going on and no idea what to do with everything.
While I’m relieved that everything is now out in the open, and after witnessing firsthand how my presence calms him, a soothing balm like Club Alias has always been for me, I can’t help but wonder if it’d be smart to talk to someone about… all this. He’s so young, just eighteen, even though he’s ridiculously mature for his age. I can’t help but worry that he may be too young to truly understand what it’s like to be in an adult relationship. Especially one in which he’d be responsible in a way a Dominant needs to be for his sub.
I decide that when he gets back, I’ll ask him how he’d feel about going to talk to Dr. Walker. If he’s willing to go to my therapist and let Doc get a read on him—someone who isn’t blinded by the emotions I’m feeling for Nate—then that would show me he’s at least willing to take this seriously. If he fights me on it or simply refuses, then I’ll know to protect myself and try to think of this as a physical relationship only.
Twenty minutes later, I’m starting to worry that Nate isn’t coming back, that all of this was just some fucked-up game he’s played to taunt and fuck with my mind like he’s been doing all year. It shouldn’t be taking this long just to run and get some food really quick. I don’t even have his phone number to send him a text to check on him.
And when those thoughts enter my mind, they start rolling around and escalating, snowballing and becoming worse and worse. My anxiety takes over, and soon I know I’ll be having a full-on panic attack. I’m pacing throughout my house, adjusting books on the shelf in my library, washing the spoon rest on my stove that was already clean, folding the laundry Nathaniel told me not to worry about after he started a load earlier this afternoon—towels he used to dry us off last night along with everything else in my hamper.
