“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, but he’s not apologizing for kissing me. No, that I’m sorry is the kind that precludes a request for clarification. He tucks his hands into his pockets and cocks his head to one side, his brow furrowing. “What exactly are you referring to?”
I wiggle one finger back and forth, gesturing between us. “This. What just happened. That can’t happen again.”
He pulls one hand out of his pocket to scratch his head, a cartoonishly confused boy. “Uh … I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be dating, with engagement and marriage on the table pretty quickly. Right? Doesn’t that mean there’ll have to be a whole lot more of that? And you kissed me back.”
Forcing myself to stay centered, calm, in control, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, that’s all correct. You are correct. But what happens in public, in front of the cameras, that can’t translate to our private time.” I wave my hands around, searching for the right words, because I’ve already hurt him once tonight when I criticized his YouTube channel, and from the way the confusion on his face is morphing into hurt, I’m doing it again. Which isn’t my goal. In fact, that’s the primary driver behind this boundary—protecting us both from unnecessary pain.
“Look.” I step closer, pleading with him for understanding with my eyes. “I know. It seems stupid, right? But … we’re stuck with each other for quite a while. A year, maybe two, enough time for us both to get established. That’s our deal, right?”
“Right,” he acknowledges, his brow lower now, the hurt replaced with something that looks a lot more like frustration.
“Well …” I lick my lips, which I realize is a mistake when his eyes track the movement with the same avid stare as a lion picking out the weakest gazelle. Closing my eyes, I force myself to go on. Maybe if I can’t see him, I won’t notice the way he looks at me. And if I can’t see the way he looks at me, I can ignore the way it makes me feel. And then I can actually say what I need to say. “If we do this, kiss, have sex, see where this leads, and then we realize that it doesn’t lead anywhere, and then we fight and want to break up but we can’t, then we’ll both be miserable.” I open my eyes, hoping he’ll see that I’m trying to look out for both of our best interests right now. “I want us to be friends through this. We both know this isn’t forever. But I don’t want us to wind up hating each other by the time it’s over.”
His piercing blue eyes bounce back and forth between mine. He takes a breath and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he lets out the breath on a sigh, closes his mouth, and nods instead. “Sure. That … that makes sense, I guess. If that’s what you want, we can do that.” He picks up his phone from the couch and checks the time. “I should probably head home. Is it okay if I wait in here until my ride gets here?”
“Of course.” But it’s the longest ten minutes of my life. We make awkward, stilted conversation for most of it, until he stands, about to leave, the sheet music I gave him in hand.
He holds it up. “I’ll work on this tonight. Can I sing it for you tomorrow? Get some notes? Make sure I’m heading the right direction?”
“Of course,” I say again, relief that he’s not mad flooding through me. That he’s willing to take my suggestions and actually wants my help. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”
“Right.” He opens the door, then pulls me to the threshold, giving me a hug and a stunningly brief kiss on the lips. “Cameras,” he whispers, before releasing me and striding toward the waiting car. I stand in the open doorway and watch him climb in and drive away without a backward glance.
Right. Cameras.
Colt calls me the next afternoon. “You ready?” he asks by way of greeting.
“For what?” I’ve been binging Community for at least the fifteenth time, so I’m having trouble accessing our last conversation. Partly because I’ve largely wanted to block it out.
He chuckles, and the warm sound sends goosebumps rippling over my arms. This boy is too dangerous for his own good, getting me all tingly with just a tiny laugh.