“You can call me Bright,” she whispers. “If you’d like.”
“What?” I touch her shoulder to get her attention. The offer was spoken to her knees, and I want to see her face. Or maybe I just want an excuse to touch her.
“It sounds … natural coming from you. I don’t mind. And we should probably exchange numbers. I can’t believe I don’t even have your phone number.”
Her words are uncertain. It’s the tone you use for a question, or when you’re questioning why you’re saying what you’re saying.
“Brighton …”
“My cell’s off. Here, give me yours and I’ll add my number.”
I dig it out of my pocket and hand it to her.
“Now you text me and I’ll have your number. That’s how this should work.” Her voice falters and she droops. “Right?”
“There isn’t any ‘should.’ What do you want, Brighton?” She won’t look at me, and suddenly I’m angry. If she doesn’t want this—me—then that’s fine. I’m fine. “I’m not going to be your stray dog—you feel good because you took me in and made a project of me.”
“What?”
“You didn’t care if people in Hamilton saw us together, but I saw your face in the school parking lot—you didn’t want people here to see you with me.”
“That’s completely ridiculous.” She wears her frustration like a tight necklace. It makes her voice tense and her words clipped. “What did you want from me, Jonah? I was embarrassed.”
“So, I’m an embarrassment. Just what every guy wants a beautiful girl to say about him.” I reach across her to open the door. “Thank you and good night.”
“Wait! Not embarrassed by you, by the situation. I’m not really a PDA person—and I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.” I catch a flicker of anger in her gray eyes before she sits up straight and asks, “What was I supposed to say to all her questions? Is there a we? Am I single? You really want to have this conversation now? Fine, my turn. Answer this, what am I to you: rebound or revenge?” She covers her open mouth, like she can stop the words she’s already spoken.
“Neither. You’re more than that. I don’t know what yet … but it’s more than that.” I press my fingers to my forehead, hoping to push back the doubts and questions.
“Me either. So I froze. I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings.” Small fingers pry my hands from my head and entwine them. “And just so you know, you were the one who stepped away from me. I may not make out for an audience, but I never would’ve let go of your hand.”
I squeeze her fingers, back in mine. I’m not letting go first this time.
She rewards me with a smile, looks up at me through her eyelashes and asks, “We’re good right now, right?”
It’s the hope in her voice that almost breaks mine when I reply.
“Yes.”
“That’s a start. We’ll get some sleep and then tomorrow—”
I stall her answer with a kiss. I’m not ready to think about tomorrow. And in case tomorrow isn’t like this, I don’t want to ruin right now.
The ferocity with which I want her scares the hell out of me. I want to know her favorite candies. And colors. If she’s a good driver, a reality TV watcher, and as horrible with sports equipment as she says. I want to know more stories about her dad. And her favorite cereal, how she really likes her pizza, and the type of music she can’t help but sing along with. I want to watch a scary movie with her and see proof that she’s not afraid. I want to find out what she is scared of. If she doesn’t know the answers to these questions, then I want to be there when she figures it all out.
I want.
Her.
Everything about her. I open my eyes and study Brighton, try to figure out how she’s managed to get so far under my skin. And her skin—I want to uncover every inch of it, bury myself in it, fuse myself to her.
I jerk my mouth from hers, watching her breath slow and her eyes blink open.
“What?” she asks, a laugh teasing her lips into a smile. I suppress the urge to kiss her again and taste her laughter. “Jonah? Why are you staring at me like that? You’re making me nervous.”
I imagine telling her the truth: I want you more than is socially acceptable, and I don’t want to want you at all. I also don’t want the night to end, because tomorrow we’ll be back to normal.
No, not normal because Carly will still be gone and I’ll still have this impulse to touch Brighton embedded permanently somewhere near my rib cage.
“Tomorrow?” I say.
She sighs and I remember.
“Your dad’s memorial. I forgot.”