As we put everything together, the tension between us would evaporate, and then return with a vengeance every time our hands or bodies brushed. When I looked at him, I would find him watching me, but he always looked away quickly. I didn’t know what to make of that. We joked and made idle conversation to fill the silence. He avoided talking about anything that could be led back to what had happened between us or what could be happening outside. By the time we had dinner (cold cuts again), I was wired tight and tense.
I hit the liquor cabinet like someone coming out of forced rehab. Pulling out the bottle of Jack, I poured myself a shot and downed it. The liquid burned like a hot coal, causing me to cough.
“Are you drinking again?” Kyler asked, setting his guitar case down in the living room.
I sat the shot glass down and refilled it. “Yeah.”
He reached around me, taking the bottle from me before I could pour another. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I scowled at him. “I think it’s a perfect idea.”
“How about we stay away from the hard liquor tonight?” He bent and pulled two beers out of the tiny bar fridge. He popped them open. “And drink this?”
“I hate the taste of beer,” I said, taking it.
He smiled as he went back to the guitar case and put the bottle down on the end table. “And I hate seeing you drunk.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Why?”
His shoulders rolled in a lazy shrug. “It’s just not you, and don’t take offense to that. I like that you’re not like that. You’re not a party girl, and that’s okay.”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. He liked that I wasn’t a party girl? But every girl he dated—and the word “dated” was used loosely—was a total party girl. My brain started to obsessively break down his words. What could he mean by that? It didn’t make sense.
I was already annoyed with myself within a minute of him saying that.
Holding the bottle to my chest, I watched him pull out the guitar. Several candles had been lit throughout the room, casting soft shadows as soon as night had fallen. Pushing the air-dried hair back from my face, I averted my gaze when his eyes found mine, his fingers messing with the tuning pegs. I went over to our bed and sat, wishing I’d had the forethought to bring along some good old-fashioned paperbacks.
But a few moments later Kyler started to play the guitar, and I wasn’t thinking about books anymore. Twisting toward him, I was lulled into fixated silence. This wasn’t a song I recognized, possibly something unique and original.
His long fingers slipped over the chords with a skilled ease I was envious of. The way he played was captivating, the lifting tune enthralling. As he played, a lock of brown hair fell over his forehead and those thick, impossibly long lashes fanned the tips of his cheekbones.
When he stopped, he lifted his chin and his eyes met mine. My throat felt too thick to speak, but I couldn’t look away. So much stretched out before us in the silence—words better left unsaid and truths that should’ve never been spoken.
Kyler put the guitar aside and reached over, picking up the bottle he had placed beside him. Only then did he look away, as he took a drink. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. I wasn’t sleepy. Actually, the exact opposite, but I wished I were. I sipped the beer, hoping it would knock me out. And that was the strangest damn thing. As much as I wanted to just go to sleep to avoid saying or doing something stupid, I didn’t want to miss any time with him.
And then he spoke. “I shouldn’t have given in.”