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“You can’t rush perfection.”
Again, she huffed. “I always think I’m right.”
“Maybe you are always right. Perfect people often are.”
“Will,” she said my name on a groan, “I’m literally going to pull my hair out.”
“Whoa, whoa. Don’t do that. Perfect people don’t have chunks of hair missing.”
She let out an easy laugh and my stomach clenched. I loved making her laugh. This whole conversation had reminded me of better, less complicated times between us. They were the days when I wasn’t secretly wrestling with feelings I didn’t want to confront. Even when we were teens and I knew my attraction for her was anything but brotherly, we were still able to laugh like this pretty regularly. It wasn’t until that kiss that things got so messed up.
My eyes found her lips then, and I watched as the smile slowly faded. I shouldn’t have looked at her lips. I shouldn’t have let the laughter die out. Because now we stood staring at each other, and it felt like my body was being slowly drawn toward hers like a magnet. It was all I could do to keep my feet firmly planted in place.
“Can I ask you something?”
Nerves swirled within me, but I wordlessly nodded nonetheless.
“If I’m always right, can I tell you something that I think I’m right about?”
The only sound I heard was the deafening beat of my own heart. Tucking my hands back into my pockets, I gave her another nod, this one a lot more hesitant.
“I think you’re a liar, Will.”
