“That’s not a responsible choice of a shirt.” She makes a face as she hops off the bed. “I know this one is comfortable, and I’m all about comfort. But it does nothing for your shape, or your boobs, and if you’re going to spend the weekend with Trevor, at least put some effort in.”
Whining, I toss the shirt on the floor. My bottom lip sticks out as I sink onto the edge of my mattress. Why bother? Why bother putting effort in? The bag of popcorn rustles against my side and a few kernels spill out. I’m too preoccupied to give Claire crap about it.
It’s like a bad meme where the math equations are all jumbled together on top of someone’s head. Best- and worst-case scenarios swirl around. That’s what I am—a big mess of thoughts I can’t segregate into manageable chunks.
Claire sits beside me. “Now is the time I have to do the one thing I really don’t love doing.”
“You’re going to exercise?”
“Lord, no,” she says, clutching her chest. “Don’t scare me like that.”
My chest vibrates with a chuckle I can’t quite eke out.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to be serious. What’s really wrong right now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t know what to do with you right now. You’ve gone with other guys to a family dinner here and there. This isn’t something new. I’m not sure why you’re so freaked out about it.”
“I’m not freaked out about it,” I lie.
“Okay. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of putting together a suitcase.” She chews her fingernail, scrutinizing me from the side. “Or do I know why?”
I sigh. “Claire . . .”
“Talk to me.”
“I don’t want to,” I say.
“Don’t act like you’re eleven.”
“Ugh.”
I hang my head, feeling my heart strum against my ribs. Everything is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m scared if I put my thoughts and feelings into the universe, it’ll make them real. Then I can’t take them back. Then I’ll hear how dumb they sound, and I’ll want to climb under the covers and cry.
I’ve worked so hard to get here—to the place where I’m able to get up in the morning and have coffee and worry about me. There isn’t a guy playing games with my head or a job on the line that I’m tiptoeing around. I have a job at the flower shop and not a thing in the world to worry about outside my own interests, and there’s such an unexpected relief in that. I don’t want to lose it.
Most of all, I don’t want to break my own heart. If that’s what happens with Trevor, it’s on me. I know what I’m getting into. In some ways, it feels like diving into a shark tank and hoping not to get eaten alive. But for some reason, I’m willing to risk it.
I get off the bed. Walking to the window, I peer out into the neighbor’s backyard. “I think . . .” I force a swallow. “I think I could really like Trevor, Claire.”
“I know, buddy.”
“And I think . . . I think if I don’t go on this trip, he and I can stay friends. And if I go, things might change between us, and I’ve never had something with a guy that felt normal after things got serious.”
“But is that what you’re worried about?” she asks gently. “Losing him as a friend? Maybe it is. And if it is, that’s great. But if it’s not, I do think you need to be honest with yourself.”
I turn to face her. “It is. Partly.”
“Do you think he doesn’t like you in the way you might like him?”
His smile rips through my mind, accompanied by his laugh, and I feel it light me up from the inside out.
Does he? He without a doubt wanted to kiss me. The way he looked at me as he leaned down, my breath captured by the intensity of his gaze, leaves me frazzled just thinking about it. I’ve never felt wanted, needed—craved—more than I did in that moment on my porch. But that means he wanted to be with me. Not that he wanted me. When I pair that with the truths he’s shared about his feelings on love, I have my answer.
“No,” I admit, my voice shaky. “I think he does like me like I might like him. But I also know that doesn’t matter.”