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I’m desperate for human interaction—of any kind. Does that make me pathetic?
Probably.
“Pushing everyone away is a lonely existence,” he continues, shifting closer. Close enough that I can smell him and feel his body heat radiating toward me. He’s not wearing the uniform jacket—when does he ever? And neither am I and it feels like layers have been peeled back between us. It would take nothing for me to touch him. Or for him to touch me.
I’m not brave enough to try and touch him so we know that’s not going to happen.
“It’s easier though. Letting someone get too close is only opening yourself to heartbreak, you know?” A shuddery breath leaves me and I regret saying those words immediately.
“You’d rather be lonely than heartbroken?”
“I’m currently dealing with both emotions, but yeah, I’d rather forget the heartbreak and be lonely forever. Keeping to myself is easier than letting someone in.”
His gaze roams over my face, like he can’t quite believe I just said that.
“Who broke your heart?” The fierce way he says the words has my brittle heart dropping and I stare at him, realizing that he sounds almost…
Protective.
“My mother’s death,” I whisper. “And I don’t think there’s any way I can put it back together again.”
The pain on his face is obvious. Is he thinking about what he said to me? How I have mommy issues? He’s not wrong. I do have mommy issues. And that’s why his words struck such a chord with me. They hurt because it’s true.
And I hate that about myself. I wish I could say I was healed and open and willing to love and be loved. But people my age scare me. They’re so careless with their emotions and words. Like Arch.
Like everyone.
I’d rather retreat and watch life unfold than participate in it.
It’s easier.
The phone rings and I answer it automatically, like I’m a robot. I can still feel Arch’s gaze on me, heavy with questions, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I focus on the call, and the next one after that, grateful for the deluge. Trying my best to ignore him when he shifts closer, his arm brushing mine before it settles.
Resting right next to mine, his warmth bleeding into me. Leaving me breathless.
Reminding me that I’m not as robotic as I’d hoped.
FIFTEEN
DAISY
I walkinto my statistics class eagerly, the first one here, as usual. At least this time the teacher is already in the room, sitting at her desk while she absently pops grapes into her mouth, her gaze fixed on her phone.
“Hi, Mrs. Nelson,” I greet as I sit at my desk, refusing to look inside the storage area to see if my book is waiting for me.
Savoring the anticipation curling through me instead.
“Oh hi, Daisy. How are you?” she asks absently, her gaze straying once more to her phone.
“Great,” I chirp, dropping my backpack at my feet and taking a deep breath.
I bend my head to the side, spotting my book, and I reach for it, pulling it out. Flipping it open and reading the note I left behind in the section that I like the best so far.
This is my favorite scene, especially the part I highlighted.
My gaze drops to the highlighted section, reading it again.
We sit next to each other, our bodies straining. Achingly aware of how close we are. I set my hand on the seat, stretching my pinky finger out as far as it will go and he does the same.
