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Then Aaron squats in front of me, swipes some frosting off my cheek, and licks it off his finger.
Oh sweet, merciful Lord.
Then he stands up, grabs some napkins off the table, chucks them at me, and says, “Clean yourself up, Beautiful. We’ve got stars to look at.”
Then he strolls toward the door.
Jerk.
But probably for the better. I’d rather be annoyed with him than turned on by him at this point.
Yes, I know, it should be the other way around, but not when I desperately want to do things with him I know I shouldn’t do.
I run into my room, grab a warm sweatshirt, slide on my fuzzy boots, then meet Aaron at the door.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yep.”
He opens the door for us and leads me into the hallway. The combination of a massive sugar-high, being crazy tired, and a little tipsy causes me to stumble slightly. Aaron grabs my arm and steadies me. Then he shakes his head.
“You sure you don’t need me to carry you?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not drunk.” Then I elbow him and say, “You just like to carry me.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.” But his eyes dance.
And my heart aches. I’m trying not to be upset tonight. This is our special thing. But this time last year—well, I guess things were equally fucked up, but we were fixing them. I know we aren’t doing that tonight. This is a preservation of our friendship, of what we mean to each other. It has nothing to do with our relationship or not-relationship or whatever the hell we are or aren’t.
Great, now I’m crabby.
And he senses it. Damn him.
He grabs my elbow before we walk out of the dorm. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly and too quietly.
He furrows his brow. “No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me. I hate when you do that.”
I force out an exaggerated exhale. “I’m not lying to you, Aaron. I… I don’t want to be upset tonight. But…”
“Yeah?”
Sometimes it feels like we’re pretending. Pretending we’re friends. Pretending we’re okay. Pretending things aren’t so utterly broken between us.
I’m constantly warring internally. I want him, but I’m still angry and hurt. I wish we’d figure our shit out, but we’re clearly not ready. I’m okay with that, then I’m not. I don’t want to be friends with him, but I can’t not be.
The only truth that remains the same is that he’s my person. He always has been, he always will be. That’s a lot harder to hold on to now. And it doesn’t feel cozy and comforting like it used to. It’s bittersweet now. That’s what everything about us is. Bitter fucking sweet. And sometimes it feels like I wait a long time for the sweet to kick in.
“But what?” he asks softly, his hand coming to my cheek.
Nope. It’s too much. Abort.
I back away and use every ounce of willpower to put on a genuine smile and say, “But I’m tipsy and tired and totally out of it. My emotions are all haywire. It’s my birthday. I want to look at the stars with you and enjoy it.”
He inhales sharply and tenses ever so slightly. Still, those last words must stick out to him because he lets it all go, smiles genuinely, and takes my hand.
He leads me to a grassy area. Thankfully, our dorm is far enough away from the brightest lights on campus, so we can still see some stars.
