“You will,” I say calmly. “You and Mom both will come at him with an endless list of questions and freak him out. We’ve seen each other only a few times. I don’t even know if he likes me like . . . that.” I’m lying. I’m pretty sure he does like me like that, but I don’t want to ruin things before they really start. “Let’s wait a while before I bring him around, okay?”
“So you’re going to see him again.” She sounds skeptical. Protective. And I love that, I do. But I also need freedom. A chance to figure out what I’m doing and if I really want it, want him.
“I hope so.” God, I really do. I dreamed about him last night. We were kissing in a dark room with no one else around us, no movie playing, just the quiet stillness making me acutely aware of him. Of me. Of us.
Together.
In my dream, I wasn’t hesitant. Instead, I was fully engaged, enjoying it, wanting more. Sighing and moaning and whispering his name, hearing the sounds of our mouths connecting, clothes rustling as hands moved and shifted, my fingers sinking in his hair, his fingers curling around my waist . . .
I woke slowly, my body hot, my bones languid. I wanted more of that. More kissing, more touching, more Ethan. I wanted to take it a step farther.
But would he?
I still feel restless from that dream, from the turbulent feelings he causes within me. I know that’s why I mentioned him. The need to talk about him, say his name out loud, prove to someone else that yes, he does exist, he’s not a figment of my imagination, was so incredibly strong, to the point of almost overwhelming me.
“So tell me. Is he cute?” Brenna smiles, reminding me of the old Brenna, the teenage girl who only cared about hot guys and if she could get their attention. How she ended up with the dud she’s living with now, I’m not really sure, but she claims Mike makes her happy. That he’s safe and steady and doesn’t leave her feeling lost or lonely.
I feel like she’s giving up. Twenty-four years old and she’s settling. That’s awful.
“Yes.” Embarrassed, I start to laugh and so does she. “Very.”
She wants security, not excitement. I get that. I do.
But I’m starting to think maybe security and excitement can go hand in hand.
At least, it seems to with Ethan.
“Does he know—who you really are? What happened to you?” Brenna asks, then shakes her head. “Of course he does. You’ve been everywhere lately. He’s had to figure it out.”
“I . . . I don’t know if he has. I told him I went through a traumatic experience in my past but I didn’t give him any details.” We haven’t even exchanged last names, but no way am I going to tell Brenna that. She’ll rip into me, not that I can blame her.
I’d rip into me. And maybe that’s part of the excitement. That unknown quality, that there are so many things I don’t know about Ethan at all. He’s mysterious. A puzzle I want to put together.
“Something to consider, if you keep seeing him and it becomes serious,” Brenna says, a gentle reminder that I can never forget my past and neither can anyone else.
I hate it. My past follows me, leeches itself upon me like a shackle and chains. Like the very chain Aaron Monroe wrapped around my ankle so he could keep me hooked to the wall like some sort of animal.
That’s my past. Attached to me so tightly I can never, ever let it go.
No matter how much I want to.
I want to make you dinner tonight.
But just thinking about it makes me nervous.
What if I screw it up?
What if you don’t like my cooking?
My house?
Me?
(forget I said that last line)
What if you leave my house hungry?
What if you never want to see me again? All because I can’t boil water and make a decent meal?
These are the things that run through my head on a Saturday morning when I wake up too early and can’t sleep.
When I contemplate inviting you over and second-guess my every decision.
And now I can’t take these thoughts back because I already hit send.
No matter how badly I want to.
Hope you’ll say yes. ?
I woke up to a list of texts from Katie that made me smile. Then made me realize she wakes up at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning. It’s barely eight o’clock and I’m pissed at myself for not sleeping in later, but what’s done is done. I’m up.
And Katie wants me to come over tonight. I can’t believe it.
Once I handle the usual morning stuff and get a few swallows of coffee in me, I answer her, keeping it short and simple.
I would love to come over for dinner. Tell me what to bring.
She answers me almost immediately.
Just yourself. That’s good enough.
I smile. I can do that.
What time then? And let me know if you really do want me to bring something.