I reckon I’m a hopeless romantic or something else equally sappy, because if I’m going to fuck someone, I want them to only have eyes for me. Why on earth would I date someone who eyes other men? They should be obsessed with me. I should consume them.
Right? God, I hope that’s right.
Not that I would know—outside of high school, where dating was a few months of hand-holding and kissing after football games, I’ve never dated. Not seriously.
“Got it” is all I can manage to reply, because I’m not sure what she’s fishing for.
I don’t have to wonder for long; she tells me.
“Have you? Thought I was sexy, I mean,” Grace presses, using her body to grind against mine.
I will myself to react, to get hard, to want it. But I can’t. I don’t.
“Uh, I think you’re pretty, sure.” For a second, I fear she’ll be offended.
But Grace just grins at my response. “You’re so adorable, Cameron. Seriously. I can’t believe you’re the same guy who constantly annihilated others on the volleyball court two years ago.”
She’s talking about senior year, when I was captain of our volleyball team. What an odd thing to bring up.
“I didn’t know you saw that. Aren’t you older than me?” I ask.
Nowthisseems to upset her. Grace’s smile falters, her hands tightening on my shoulders.
“Yeah,” she says with a forced laugh. “But I still came to games. Still saw you in action.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
It gets awkward. She looks around briefly, seeming to gather herself. I want to tell her I’m tired and maybe hide out in Cassie’s room for the rest of the night, but I think that might upset a few people, considering thisismy party.
“I’d be interested in seeing you in action again. In other ways,” Grace adds, recovering from the awkward tension beautifully.
Dear lord. How am I meant to respond to that? Do I say no thanks? Do I laugh it off? Fuck. I hate this situation just about as much as I hate making any other decision.
But before I can speak, before I can embarrass myself, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My eyes lift, and I spot Atticus leaning against the wall where I was when he arrived, Cassie next to him as she speaks into his ear.
Despite her conversing, he is not looking in her direction. No, he’s staring straight atme.
Can he see it? Can he see how badly I’m fucking this up, that I’m really not as great as people say I am? I feel nauseous again.
“Cameron?” Grace prods, and my eyes dart back to her, though I can still feelhisonme.
“Yeah?”
“I asked if you wanted to fuck me.”
I bristle at how straightforward the question is and quite literally take a step backward. I bump into a guy dancing with someone I presume is his girlfriend before I mumble my apologies.
“I… I need the restroom,” I lie, giving Grace a forced smile and rushing into the entryway, then past it to the guestroom, where I know there’s an ensuite.
Once alone, I slam the bathroom door shut and splash cold water onto my face.
Cloudy gray eyes stare back at me, my lips trembling. The blond of my hair is darkening with sweat where it’s matted to my forehead.
I feel like a joke. A fraud.
If Dad were alive, would he have shaped me into a better man? One who wants to fuck hot girls and who doesn’t have a hard time deciding what to wear each morning when I only own four solid outfits?
No, probably not. I believe I’ve been defective since birth.
