Page 86 of Clinically Awkward

“See you soon,” I said, and then I walked to my car, got in, and drove away before she could change her mind.

One hour.

I had one hour to figure out how to convince Vivian Darcy that what happened between us wasn’t a mistake. That our friendship, the late-night texts, the terrible movies, the baseball games and hiking trails and Chinese food, was the perfect foundation for something more.

That I was in love with her.

Completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with her.

And that I refused to let her go.

I drove home on autopilot, my brain spinning through every possible scenario.

Scenario One: She walks in, sits on the couch, and says, “Quinton, you’re a great guy, but I’m staying with Colton.”

Response: Cry. Possibly vomit. Definitely drink.

Scenario Two: She walks in, sits on the couch, and says, “Quinton, I think we should just be friends.”

Response: Same as Scenario One, but with more crying and possibly more drinking.

Scenario Three: She walks in, sits on the couch, and says, “Quinton, I’m in love with you too.”

Response: Pass out. Wake up. Confirm it wasn’t a dream. Kiss her until we both forget our own names.

I pulled into my parking spot, grabbed my bag, and headed upstairs.

My apartment looked exactly the way I had left it this morning. Clean. Organized. Completely devoid of any evidence that I was a functional adult who had his life together.

Because I don’t. I’m a disaster. A disaster who is about to confess his feelings to his best friend’s sister.

I dropped my bag by the door and looked around. The couch was fine. The kitchen was clean. The bedroom—Don’t think about the bedroom.

Do not think about the bedroom.

Shit... I thought about the bedroom. About the way she looked sprawled across my sheets, hair fanned out on the pillow, skin flushed and glowing in the dim light. About the way she laughed when I fumbled with her bra clasp. About the way she whispered my name as if it were the only word that mattered.

Focus, Quinton. You have forty-five minutes to figure out what the hell you’re going to say.

I paced.

Opened the fridge and stared at the contents as if they might offer some kind of divine wisdom.

Shocker: They didn’t.

I closed the fridge and paced some more.

Checked my phone.

No messages.

Good. That’s good. She hasn’t cancelled. Yet.

I sat on the couch.

What am I going to say?

“Vivian, I know this is complicated, but I’m in love with you and I think we should give this a shot?”