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“How come I never kissed you?” he repeats.
I nod. Then I realize he can’t see my nod. “Yeah.”
He takes a big breath in and out. “Well, there were plenty of times I wanted to, if we’re being honest.”
My belly flutters at the confirmation that he felt the same way I did. “But . . .” I prompt.
“When we first met, I thought there was no way in hell you’d like someone like me. I was the fat kid with a crush on the coolest girl I had ever met. It wasn’t until you were living with me and my family that I thought, holy shit, she might feel the same.”
My mind whirrs as he speaks, wondering how on earth he wasn’t sure of my feelings. Wasn’t it obvious that I couldn’t stop staring at him? That I wanted to spend every day with him? All these years, he’s let himself believe that he’s the fat kid when he’s anything but - he’s thick, strong, protective…he’s all I’ve ever wanted in a man.
I start to consider the real possibility that in my attempt to protect my feelings, that I came off as cold and uninterested instead.
“But by then, I wanted you to be able to depend on us, and I worried if I had kissed you, if I crossed that line and somehow misread everything between us, you would have run away. So, I tucked away my feelings and decided having a safe place for you to go, people to depend on was a hell of a lot more important than what I wanted.”
My heart aches at his answer. It’s so typical of Emmett. The good guy. The thoughtful one. Most teenage guys would have put their feelings first, wanting to see if they could get to third base with a girl was probably the most important thing on their mind, but not him.
“Would you have let me kiss you, if I had tried?” he asks.
I roll my head to the side, letting the cool wall temper my aching head, wondering if it’s the alcohol or his words making me feel so dizzy. “Yeah,” is all I manage to say, my body flushed with the thought of all the times we could have kissed—in his truck when he picked me up from work, on the couch with the dim light of the television illuminating his face, at the lake under the moonlight.
“Do you remember that night we were watching TV and I ended up straddling you?”
He groans, and I can hear the sheets rustling again. My mind wanders, wondering if he’s adjusted his position, wondering if he’s thinking about that night, if his hand is moving down to grip himself under the sheets.
“All the fucking time,” his voice is raspy, wavering, like a man about to break. “Believe me when I say this, Jenna, if my sister hadn’t barged in, I would have taken your virginity right there on my parents’ couch.”
I’m panting now, wishing I could strip my clothes off and release the ache I feel growing between my legs. “I would have let you.”
“Well, that’s good to know.”
“Good to know for what?”
“For the next time we see each other.”
Chapter Ten
Present Day
Ilook down at the paper in my hand, then to the shelf in front of me, and back to the paper in my hand, wondering if the recipe I chose is a little out of my league. Beef and broccoli sounded easy, but the list of ingredients on my list says otherwise.
“What the fuck’s the difference between oyster sauce, fish sauce, and hoisin sauce?” I mumble under my breath, wondering why I wrote down all three sauces, then wondering if I accidentally combined two recipes when I wrote my list.
What the hell is a hoisin anyways? Is it a type of fish? Can you milk a hoisin? I hope it isn’t the slime from a shell or something. I thought I needed plum sauce. Why didn’t I write down plum sauce?
With a frustrated grumble, I plop down on my butt in the Asian-food aisle of the grocery store and pull out my phone, hoping to google my recipe.
Carts stroll by and I mumble a series of apologies as shoppers pass, pulling my basket closer to my legs. In my peripheral, I see a cart that stops, metal resting against my basket and refusing to move, even when I pull it closer to me to let them pass.
“Sorry, I’m being a hog.” I stand up, keeping my eyes glued to my google search as I use my foot to slide my basket over so the shopper can come closer and look at the shelves. “Just tell me to move if I’m in the way.”
I mindlessly scroll my phone, ignoring the stranger standing a little to close to my basket. It isn’t until I hear them say my name that I freeze.
That voice.
That voice used to bring me so much comfort when I was scared. Soothed me when I was pissed at my mom, stressed during school, or worried I’d never make it as a nurse. It’s a voice I haven’t heard in three years. The same voice that haunts my dreams.
“Jenna,” they say again.
