“Maybe,” I admit.
He laughs, deep down in his throat. “You freaking out?”
“Also maybe.”
There’s a soft touch along my shoulder. He’s stroking my back. “You don’t need to.”
“Why?”
“We’re good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Arthur keeps stroking my shoulders, his short fingernails trailing along the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I tilt my head up, peering at his chin. It’s dark. The lights outside are muffled by the thick curtains, the clock on the nightstand glowing soft blue.
“Do you like me?” I ask. “You never said.”
His fingers don’t miss a beat.
“I like you.”
I hate having to ask, waking him up, crawling for a compliment. It makes me feel small, needy. Iamsmall and needy when it comes to him.
“Lilah?” he says, breaking my train of thought again.
“Yeah?”
“Check my pants pocket.”
Diversion tactics. Typical. I shift over to my side of the bed and grab his discarded jeans. I’m guessing he’s looking for his phone, but I can only feel the rounded-square shape of a small box. I pull it out, then have to not yelp. It’s a tiny red velvet box, and I don’t want to hand it over to him, in case whatever is inside might change my life more drastically than tonight already has.
“Open it.” He laughs, sensing my primordial fear.
Holding my breath, I use the clock light to pop the hinged lid open—and I’m both relieved and strangely hollow at the sight of a bizarre-looking little watch. Gingerly, I pull the black band from the white satin and inspect the ticking surface. The distorted watch face resembles a melting clock painting by Salvador Dalí.
“Care to explain?”
“You said you’d wear a watch,” Arthur says from his place lying down. “It’s called a Crash.”
“Arthur.”
“Listen. I’ve never…” He swallows. “After the crash, I threw myself into anything that kept me from feeling things. But I want you to know that this, you and me… I feel it. So much.”
“So you’re not, this isn’t—also fake? Or it won’t be, tomorrow?”
He hums out a soft “No,” then stretches out his arm. I set the watch down, hot and happy all over, and bury myself back in his side. Arthur strokes up the back of my neck, fingertips winding along the ends of my hair.
“If you get me talking about what I feel about you, I’m gonna keep you up all night,” he murmurs. “You won’t be able to get me to stop.”
That…
Doesn’t sound bad at all.
He moves to my head, fingers splaying through my hair to massage my scalp, and I force myself not to yawn. It’s hard to keep my eyes from drifting shut, lulled by his warmth, his touch, the night. Sleep keeps fuzzing the outskirts of my thoughts, blurring the lines between Arthur and me. I wonder if he feels the same, like we’re mixed together, him and me and me and him. I wish we were.
“I wanna hear the nonstop feelings. I’m ready.”
