How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,70

pulse where he touched me. “You are mine. All mine. Every part of you.” He moved up again, brushing his lips over the top of my breast, up my breastbone. “And I’m all yours. My body loves you. My brain loves you. My heart loves you. All of it loves you, Megan.” When I was too overcome to say anything, he lifted his head, his dark eyes staring into mine. “You didn’t think I’d say it back, did you?”

“Come here,” I said through my closed throat.

He leaned up and kissed me.

It was just that easy.

A week later, I got my test results. I sat in Dr. Pfeiffer’s office, my palms sweating, as he explained them to me. I tried not to shake.

When he had finished, I nodded. I asked questions. He answered them. And then he let me go.

When I walked out the door, the first person I saw was Jason, in the waiting room, waiting for me.

I started to cry. “I’m fine,” I told him as the tears came down my face. “Everything is normal. I’m fine.”

My vision was a blur, so I barely saw him coming toward me. But I knew he was there. I knew he always would be.

And when I reached out, he caught me.

Epilogue

One Year Later

Jason

It was after midnight when I got home. The October air was chill, and I zipped my coat all the way up my neck as I hurried across the parking lot of our building. I kept it zipped, my hat pulled down on my head, as I climbed the stairs.

The apartment was dark and silent. Megan was asleep. I untied my boots as quietly as I could, not letting them thump on the floor—that always woke her up—and pulling off my hat and coat. Our place was warm and familiar, and suddenly I was so tired I could barely put my coat on its hook.

I ran a hand through my hair and moved as softly as I could in my socks to the fridge. The front of the fridge had a calendar of the month stuck to it, covered in both of our handwriting: when she was working, when I was working, appointments, birthdays. There wasn’t a blank day. Between Megan’s styling jobs and my shifts, which were on a rotation, we sometimes had weeks where we crossed paths, catching a few hours together here and there. I pulled the apple juice bottle from the fridge and contemplated the calendar as I drank a glass.

We were going to Dean and Holly’s on Saturday, I saw. That hadn’t been written on there this morning. I shook my head. Dean had married my sister five months ago, just a small ceremony at City Hall, with his adopted mother and brother, and my mother, and Megan and me. Megan had sobbed through the whole thing, almost as much as my mother had. It had been a waterworks. They’re just so happy together, she’d said as she pressed Kleenex to her eyes. And they were. I’d never seen two people happier than Dean and Holly were. Unless it was Megan and me.

I checked the rest of the calendar, looking for a window of time. Megan wasn’t working tomorrow, but I was. I had Sunday off, but she didn’t. She worked freelance, and she took shifts when the work was instead of doing a nine-to-five. As for me, between my EMT shifts and my paramedic classes, I was usually so turned around I had a hard time remembering what day it was.

I texted one of my coworkers—luckily he was up—and asked to trade shifts with him. We went back and forth with my phone on silent so Megan wouldn’t wake up. He took my shift tomorrow, and I took his Sunday shift. He was glad to do the trade to get Sunday off. I picked up the pen on the side of the fridge and made the change to the calendar.

There. Now we had a whole day together, her and me. Alone.

I had plans. They consisted of keeping her in bed all morning, then making a late brunch. Then maybe some lazy shopping. Then back to bed. Dinner. Repeat.

I missed my girlfriend.

I put the pen back and my glass in the sink and moved quietly to the bedroom. My eyes were adjusted to the dark, and I could see that Megan was lying on top of the covers, curled up on her side, facing away from me. She was wearing one of my gray t-shirts