Smirking, he took another giant bite. “Tastes so good.”
“I know. I’m thinking about another.”
“You can, but I’m planning to bring you to a cupcake place after this.”
“Stop. I love cupcakes.”
“I know. It’s one of your hotter takes.”
“Shut up,” I said, but it was lost inside my giggling. It was intoxicating the way he made me laugh, the way he made me feel. Like champagne bubbles were fizzing inside my chest. “I love all baked goods.”
“But in the spring when I wanted to hang out and you were having a hard day you said I could come over only if I brought cupcakes.”
The little things he remembered were kind of adorable. And the spark in his brown eyes was something I could watch for the rest of my life. I remembered that night; it had been abnormal. Instead of sex, we snuggled on my sofa and watched a movie whose title I couldn’t remember. It wasn’t very good. The most memorable thing about it was that it made me sad, which had more to do with hormones than plot. When I started crying, I’d been so scared he was going to make fun of me. Instead, he’d moved to my side of the sofa and rubbed my back until my tears dried.
It was probably the beginning of me giving into my reckless crush. The memory was like dancing on hot coals, and some self-preservation stepped up to douse them. “Was that the time I was PMSing like a motherfucker?”
“You didn’t say it, but it was heavily implied.”
“By my crying?”
“You had a bad day.” He stretched a hand out to squeeze my knee, it lingered there, big and warm. “And that movie was terrible.”
Just like that, he had me giggling again, which should probably embarrass me, but I was too dizzy fromlikinghim.
There was no help for me. But at least this time, I could let myself enjoy this, enjoy him, knowing that I would survive the loss.
What else was there to do?
“I didn’t realize how much you were...paying attention when we hung out.” Hoping to come off as nonchalant, I took the last bite of my taco, when in reality I was hanging onto every word he might say before he even said it.
Leaning back in his chair, he rested his ankle on his knee. “I think there’s often a disconnection between my behavior and...me.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you didn’t think I was invested, when in fact, I want to know everything about you.” His hands flexed and curled into fists on his lap. “I must not express myself well.”
I sucked on my bottom lip, debating whether to go further with this conversation or not. If I kept quiet, I could keep my dignity. But if I said something, I might be less confused by how he could be saying this while not understanding what I’d meant when I’d asked him if he’d want something meaningful with me.
“You don’t say much,” I observed, “so, it leaves me to interpret you through your actions. I can make up an entire story from what you do.”
“What story is that?”
That you wrap me in a towel, and notice what flowers smell like me, and that must mean that you love me.
“That you text me out of the blue from time to time. We get drinks. We have sex. And then we don’t talk until...” I let my words trail off, letting what I didn’t say speak for me.
The plastic chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back staring out at the ocean lapping at the rocks lining the shore. A line formed between his eyebrows, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. I could practically see his thoughts raging behind his brown eyes, but I couldn’t read them. After a couple minutes, I opened my mouth to suggest—with an upbeat tone that I didn’t actually feel—we should go get the flowers. We could skip the cupcakes.
But then he said, “When my dad died...I don’t think I really got better.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t deserve—I’m not—” He cut himself off, running a hand down over his lips. He chuckled, his mouth caught in a grimace. “Why is speaking so hard?”
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”
“It’s not you.” With both feet on the ground, he leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs and his hands dangled between his knees. “I need you to know, it’s me—it’s my fault.”
