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“The second I saw you in the lobby, I was screwed. It’s why I got caught on the fan radar.” His sigh disappears into the rumble of the fan. “There you were, coming down that escalator, and I couldn’t move.”
I mop up the water, ball the paper towels, and shove them down the round cut-out in the counter. “Am I supposed to say thank you for gawking?”
“We both know that’s not gonna happen.” His dimples surface. “Once I got past thegawking,something else kept me there.” His face is open. No mask.“You had this lost look, like you were twisted up inside, and there was this second when I felt like whatever was twisting you might get what was twisting me.”
My knees weaken. But I can’t fall for him. I won’t. “It’s been more than two minutes.”
“And you haven’t left.” His voice low, he hangs onto my gaze.
I gesture to the door. “You’re blocking the only way out.”
He slides to the light blue wall.
I abandon my sanctuary by the sink and grip the door handle.
“Coley’s my sister.” His palm spreads across my upper back, and he steps behind me, curling his hands over my upper arms, pressing his cheek against my hair. “We had a fight. I spilled Fireball all over her and me.”
“Your sister?” The cord binding my heart loosens.
He slowly spins me to face him and in a very Dante-like move tips his chin toward his feet. “I meant it when I said I liked being with you.” Taking my hand, he traces slow lines on my palm out to each of my fingers. “I like you. I like that even when you’re scared, you pep talk yourself into doing the scary thing. I like that you got in my car in your pajamas and no makeup. I like that you eat bagels, and you’re not plastic or attention-hungry and that you don’t put up with my shit. I even like it that you hate it when I sayshit.” He lifts his head, drowning me in those chocolate eyes.
And my stupid heart stumbles. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want more than pretend with you.” His fingers slide between mine. “I want something real. And if it wasn’t for the damned Fireball”—his mouth tips in an ironic grin—“I probably wouldn’t be admitting any of this.”
It’s because of the Fireball I slide my fingers free.
If he would’ve said those things to me sober, I would’ve given him a crush-like smile. Fallen into his arms. Killed my no-kissing decree. But he isn’t sober, he’s drunk. And I don’t do drunk. Drunk people promise things they don’t mean. Do things they wouldn’t do if they were sober. Forget about what’s important. So why is it so hard to walk away?
“Say something.” His voice is strained.
“You were drinking.”
He studies me. “You’re not down with me getting buzzed around you. Won’t happen again.”
“I’m notdownwith you getting buzzed at all.”
He reaches for me, but I put up my hands and step back. And he looks so sad, sohurt, I’m suddenly sharing what I never thought I would. “My mom drank. A lot. Okay?”
“She was an alcoholic?” The empathy in his voice competes with his shock.
I hate theAword. Nine letters. Four syllables. Tons of crappy baggage. “She had... phases. Times she was fine. Times she wasn’t.” More of the latter, but I don’t say that.“That memory I didn’t want to talk about wasn’t about my dad. It was about the summer two years ago that she stopped drinking.” My eyes sting. “It didn’t last much past fall. Something happened and...” Dad exiled her. The sting turns to a gritty burn. “She moved to Frisco. I’m not legally allowed to see her.”
He watches me in silence.
Any second I’m going to cry. And I really, really, really don’t want to cry in front of him. And I will if he asks why. I touch my braid, wishing I could rip it out and hide behind my hair.
“Drinking’s not like that with me.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Sometimes I do stupid shit without thinking.”
“Zero impulse control. Been there, done that with my Mom.” Got the party favor on my jaw. I turn and grab the door.
“Wait.” He lightly circles my wrist and pulls me to face him. “Lately, I maybe haven’t made the best decisions.”
“Youmaybehaven’t?”
“I definitely haven’t.” He sighs like he doesn’t want to say anything else, but then he opens his mouth again. “My family... my mom... everything’s been so messed up, and I haven’t... handled it very well.” Letting me go, he runs his hands through his hair.
There’s enough regret in his voice that I believe him. Mom used to be sorry too. It didn’t stop her from putting Jack Daniels first.
