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No.
The answer was a resounding no.
Chapter Three
Max
I hated leaving her, but until the right moment came and I could tell Abigail how I felt, keeping things platonic was the best option. Not to mention, she was stressed out with school and being away from her parents for the first time. I didn’t want to shell-shock her all at once.
But damn, it was hard, and with each passing day, all I wanted to do was pull her in close, push the hair away from her face, and whisper to her that I loved her. But I wanted to go slow and easy with Abigail. Our friendship was strong, stronger than anything I’d ever experienced in life. And the fact that I loved her only made things even tighter between us. Although she didn’t know my feelings, she knew I would die for her.
And I would die for her over and over again.
I got into my car and stared up at the vicinity I knew her dorm window was. I could imagine her in there getting comfortable and situated, getting to know her roommate a little bit better. As I looked around at the campus, seeing all the guys, smart assholes who were good-looking, anger rose up inside me. I was a jealous bastard when it came to Abigail, and her time, her very presence, was mine… only mine.
To even think of her sharing any amount of time with one of these little motherfuckers enraged me. The very thought of her even sitting next to another guy, of the prick looking over at her and realizing how vulnerable and innocent she was, had me curling my hands tightly around the steering wheel. The leather creaked and I loosened my grip, resting my head back on the seat and breathing out roughly.
I didn’t know how long I could last keeping my feelings bottled up, especially with her now in college. At least in high school we saw each other every day, all day. I could keep all the little fuckers away, because the truth was, guys had one thing on their mind, and I knew damn well in college it was no different.
I headed home with enough time to put on a change of clothes before I had to go to the body shop. A small package sat on my doorstep, and after I picked it up and headed inside, I set it on the breakfast counter and opened it. Inside was the bag I’d ordered, the custom conversation hearts that said small phrases that were personal and intimate, ones I’d come up with that were just for Abigail.
I wasn’t a sappy, romantic kind of guy, but when it came to Abigail, I wanted to be the kind of man who gave her chocolates and flowers, who sprinkled rose petals on the floor just so her bare feet could feel how soft they were. And I’d wracked my brain on how to tell her that I loved her. Sitting on the couch with a box of pizza in front of us seemed grossly inadequate, even if that was one of our favorite things to do.
She deserved more.
And maybe spelling out my feelings for her with these pieces of candy was pretty fucking cliché and cheesy, but I knew she’d like it. I hoped she would anyway.
I took the bag out and set it by the microwave, knowing I needed to figure out when I was going to do this. Maybe Valentine’s Day. That seemed romantic, right?
I didn’t know shit about this stuff or what women liked. I knew Abigail like I knew myself, but this was a whole other level I was unfamiliar with.
I ran my hand over my face and leaned against the counter, staring at the small black box I kept on my bookshelf. I walked over to it, grabbed it, and went over to the couch and sat down.
I probably looked at the contents of this box a dozen times over the years. I’d gotten the camera on my fourteenth birthday, and I had taken so many pictures that my mom had gotten pissed, because she had to keep buying me film.
I picked up the stack of pictures and looked through them. The majority were just of Abigail, ones where the light was hitting her perfectly, others where she was laughing, some midbite right before she got pissed at me for taking pictures of her eating. It was an array of the different shades of Abigail. And her personality came out in each one.
I held one that was of her and me. I was staring at her, a small smile covering her lips as she faced the camera. My mother had taken it on her seventeenth birthday, but I remembered it like it was just yesterday, like I was standing right beside her, inhaling that sweet cotton candy scent that clung to her. How could she not see the way I looked at her, this longing in my gaze?
