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Jack places his hands over Dylan’s ears. “Language,” he warns with exaggeration.
“Let’s go.” Wade snaps as he pulls on Jack’s shirt.
Jack looks at me as if asking permission to leave. I give him a nod and he lets Wade pull him closer to the door.
“Nice to see you again.” Wade gestures to Sasha, and she gives him a genuine smile and a wave.
“Yes, nice to see you again,” Jack says sarcastically, and gives her a little curtsey, letting the door slowly close behind him.
Sasha narrows her eyes at him and then turns to me.
“Look,” I cut her off before she can say anything, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for kissing me last night or sorry for dropping my Jeep off when you knew I wouldn’t see you?”
Yeah, she’s pissed.
“Both?” I say weakly, not sure what the right answer is.
“Cash,” she warns.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I can’t tell you what you’resupposedto do, but I can tell you what you’renotsupposed to do,” she says. “You’renotsupposed to run away after you kiss me, and you’renotsupposed to drop my Jeep off at the wee hours of the morning to avoid me.” She crosses her arms over her chest and sticks out one of her pink glittered Converse.
“I admit I didn’t handle it the right way.” I run my hand through my hair, shifting my weight uncomfortably.
“Look, if you’re not into me, that’s fine, just say so, but I highly doubt that’s the case judging by that kiss.” She raises an eyebrow and heat creeps up my neck.
“It’s not that simple.” I throw my hands in the air, frustrated with her but mostly frustrated with myself. She’s a curveball being thrown at me, and I don’t know how to catch it.
“Sure it is.” Her brown eyes widen. “You just have to tell me how you feel.”
I wish I had the capacity to tell her how I feel, but even I don’t know that. I’ve spent too much time avoiding conversations like this, guarding my feelings, that I don’t know how to handle them. Other women have never challenged me the way she does with just a look.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” she breaks the silence. “The first time I met you at the festival,” she pauses, “I took your picture because if I could give you one thing, it would be the ability to see yourself through my eyes, and you would know howimpossibleit is for me to walk away.”
Gripping the edge of the counter, I feel her words all the way down in my gut, but I tamper the emotions threatening to rise to the surface. I don’t want to walk away, but I don’t want to walk right into the fire either. I can make a million excuses, but the truth is I just don’t want to get my heart broken again.
“Tell me you didn’t feel something, that youdon’tfeel something now.” She begs me to confess what she already suspects is true, that I have feelings for her.
What I want to say is that I felt that kiss all way down into my bones, that I’ve been drawn to her like a magnet since the first time I met her, and the more I get to know her, the more she affects me. But I know where this will lead. I’ve guarded my heart for so long that I don’t know how to let down the walls.
“You’re too young.” My gaze meets hers as I lean on the counter, dropping my head. “And you work for me.”
“Those are facts not feelings,” she says, her disappointment palpable as she stands before me, vulnerable with the freedom to express how she feels.
I can’t put my heart on the line for someone who has their whole life ahead of them. She hasn’t even started living yet. She’s here for the summer, and in the fall she will be gone, but I will still be here.
“Why would you want to spend your time with some old guy who is strapped to this record store?” I lift my head, asking her honestly. “I come with a lot of baggage.”
She could have any guy she wants, someone her own age that has the same ambitions. I’ve been in this record store for so long it’s a part of me. As much as I complain, the fact is, without it, I don’t know who I am, and that’s okay.
Sasha shakes her head. “You are unbelievable.” Her sudden anger confuses me and I lean back. “Do you think I’m some lovesick teenager overonekiss?” she asks me but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m not testing out how your last name looks on my signature in my diary, Cash Morgan.” She mimics a very theatrical signature in the air.
I take a step back.
“It was a kiss,” she states, stepping forward. “Not a marriage proposal.”
