It Sounded Better in My Head - Nina Kenwood Page 0,53

eyes, because eye contact when making any kind of confession increases the stress tenfold.

He laughs. ‘Good. What else?’

‘I like you. You know, in general, as a person,’ I say, which feels big and momentous enough that I am proud of myself, even though I know adding ‘as a person’ is a total cop out. He kisses my forehead, and I am surprised again at his tenderness.

‘Well, what are we telling everyone out there?’ I say.

‘We’re telling them to mind their own business.’

‘It’s too late for that.’

‘We say we’re seeing where this is going.’

‘Okay, good, that sounds good,’ I say.

That’s something. That’s a relationship status of sorts. In the world of The Bachelor and The Bachelorette that means you’re getting a rose, you’ll be around for another week. (It’s fucked up that I’m automatically assigning Alex the role of Bachelor in my mind, and me the role of underdog—the unconventional contestant that the audience is cheering for but the one they know will never win.)

I leave Alex’s room, and I go straight to the bathroom, because I can’t face anyone yet and I need a moment to run cold water over my wrists and take deep breaths.

This is what you want, I tell myself.

My throat feels dry. It’s a little sore. I think I’m getting sick. I’ve caught something off him. Glandular fever, maybe. Or scarlet fever, which I thought was an old-fashioned disease that didn’t exist anymore until a girl at my school caught it after kissing too many people at a music festival. Alex probably kisses so many girls that he’s a walking bacteria incubator. He’s probably built up an immunity to all the germs he’s carrying, and I have zero immunity because I’ve been kissing no one, and I will collapse under the exposure.

I need to get a grip. A boy might like me. This information should not send me into total emotional collapse.

I can do this. I can do this.

20

A Great Love Story

Sal is driving us home to Melbourne. Mariella has been careful to divide us into non-couple groups: Lucy and Glenn in her car, and Zach, Anthony and me with Sal. Alex is left to drive home on his own. A part of me wanted to drive off with Alex, windows down, music blaring, sunglasses on (a pair much cooler than the ones I actually own), everyone open-mouthed in the rear-vision mirror as we roar away, but I don’t think Mariella could take it, and she’s been kind enough to host me.

Zach and I sit in the backseat, turned away from each other, looking out our respective windows. We’ve settled into a silent fight. We don’t need to say a single word to know how mad we are at each other. Sal and Anthony talk as we drive, but their conversation doesn’t penetrate the cold, hard tension in the backseat. Zach and I are sealed off in our own little cube of hurt feelings and angry thoughts.

I am arguing with him in my mind (‘You’re selfish and immature and trying to block my only chance at love.’ ‘Natalie, I’m sorry—’ ‘NO, I’M NOT DONE, LET ME FINISH’) when we pull into a petrol station. Sal gets out to fill the tank, and Anthony leaps out and runs inside to buy food. Zach and I are alone in the car. We glance at each other and then away again.

‘Can we talk for a second?’ I say.

‘Sure.’ Zach says, turning towards me a little.

I expected him to say no, and then I could be smug in the knowledge I tried to be the bigger person, and I could text Lucy and say, ‘I wanted to talk but he didn’t’, and she would yell at Zach for me, and everything would be resolved in a day or so. Now I need something to say.

‘Well?’ Zach says.

‘Well, I don’t know what I’m going say yet,’ I say defensively.

‘Okay, let me go first. When did this thing with Alex start?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘So you just started kissing out of the blue?’ he says.

‘Pretty much,’ I say. I mean, if you skip past all my agonising feelings, that sums it up.

‘Because you were in a bed together and why not,’ Zach says flatly.

He’s trying to make it sound as bad as possible, but really, ‘we were in a bed together and why not’ sounds kind of hot to me.

‘Sort of. I mean, we talked first,’ I say. How much detail does he want?

‘Do you actually like him?’

‘Why are you using that tone?’

‘What tone?’

‘You

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