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With my heart a pulpy mess in my chest, I ask, “What do you want?”
Leaning against the opposite wall, he stands all casually, his hands in his pockets, taking stock of me. At my question, his eyes come back to my face. “It’s pretty.”
Of course he completely ignores my question.
Because when has he ever cared about what I want?
“Why are you here?” I try again.
“Blue suits you,” he murmurs, determined to not answer me.
As opposed to what, pink?
I almost say it.
Almost.
But thankfully, I pull myself back from it. I don’t want to engage him. I don’t want to go down memory lane with him. As if we’re old friends, sharing some kind of an inside joke.
We’re not friends.
We never were and we never will be.
Not to mention, I don’t havetimeto do this with him.
I need to get back to the people who actually are my friends. His friends too by the way.
His best friend.
I need to get back to his best friend and do what I came here to do.
“What do youwant?” I ask again, this time with a more severe voice.
Hoping that it might get through to him.
But of course not.
Cocking his head to the side, he replies, kinda amused, kinda not, “I want you to say thank you.”
“What?”
“It was a compliment.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff, unable to help myself.
He frowns slightly. “What, you don’t think so?”
Don’t say it.
Just give him what he wants. Say thank you so you can get back.
“No.”
Damn it, Echo.
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s you.”
