I’m daring him to do.
“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”
Was that what I wanted him to say? Because how easy. It’s one simple word that will magically put all this to an end.
But I can’t make the word form on my lips. I can’t even think it in my mind. Because as much as I say I don’t want this, as much as I pretend I don’t want him, we both know it’s a lie.
So if not stop, what now? Do we follow each other around? Do we continue to do this, whatever this is, every time we “bump into each other”?
How long is he going to stay interested in that?
But more importantly, what happens to my happiness if I don’t let him in?
I drop my arms and step away, needing space, but I only end up angling one side of my body from him because I can’t bear to be any farther away. “Why do you care? Was it the sex?”
“No.” He looks disgusted that I even asked. “Don’t get me wrong. It was fucking amazing sex. Mind-blowing sex. Out-of-this world sex. Both times. I’ve honestly never felt more at home than I did inside you, Camilla. But do not ever think to degrade this to just sex.” He waggles a finger from him to me on the word “this,” indicating the crazy attraction that exists between us.
He feels it too.
It makes me want to cry, and I’m not certain if they’d be happy tears or sad. Sometimes they feel the same. Bubbles. “You shouldn’t say such things to me, Hendrix. I left last night when you started talking like this, remember.”
He lets his hand brush against mine purposefully. His pinkie strokes up and down mine, letting me know how purposeful the move is. “The only thing I regret last night is not kissing you.”
My breathing becomes heavy. I thought about that too, all night as I lay in the dark. I repeated the entire dinner over and over, the kiss we didn’t have ending each replay.
I almost say it too.
But that’s too honest. Too naked.
I pretend he didn’t say it and double down on my previous statement. “You should find another tactic. The heart-on-your-sleeve method isn’t working.”
“I don’t know. It seems my tactic is working just fine.”
“Really?”
He wraps his pinkie around mine and electricity shoots up my arm like the light going on when the plug is locked in place. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
I blink up at him, then have to immediately lower my gaze because it’s too hard to look at him and feel all the things I feel at the same time. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say, my voice trembling with the confession.
“I know,” he says, and it isn’t at all patronizing. “We’ll go slow. We’ll figure it out together.”
I can’t speak except to say, “I have to go.”
And when I get Freddie and head us in the direction of Edward’s for our swim, I haven’t the least idea if I’m walking away or toward.
Chapter Eight
Tension: The state of being stretched or strained. - MoMA Glossary of Art Terms
Three minutes until class, and I’m as nervous as I was on day one.
This time, instead of worrying that the Hendrix Reid listed on my class sheet is the same one that I met in the autumn, I’m flustered because I’m sure that it is.
Excited too.
There’s a quote that comes to mind from a famous musical when Little Red Riding Hood has first met the wolf, the fear she has at seeing his teeth bared is equally balanced with excitement.
I feel that way about Hendrix, not that I believe he’s a wolf per se. But he could be. He could be any kind of man. He could be secretly cruel. He could lash out when he drinks too much. He could use his fists when he doesn’t get his way.
Or he could be the gentlest man on the face of the planet.
That last possibility might actually scare me the most. I’ve found the other sorts of men so typical in my life that I feel unfortunately experienced. I’m not sure what to do with kindness. Not sure how to take love that doesn’t feel like a wound except from Edward and Freddie.
It’s a wonder that the past six days away from him hasn’t given me time to rethink and reform. Going to the park, letting him meet my son—those were risks I should never have taken. And though I left that day with a