Page 53 of Absolutely Not in Love
“Is it bad that you what?”
She bites her lip and shakes her head. “Never mind.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Is it…bad that you hate spaghetti?”
She rolls her eyes. “I love spaghetti. I was just going to say that…I’m sad I won’t see you all weekend.”
I hold her gaze, sensation dancing over my skin like there’s some kind of electrical current stretching across the space between us, lighting me up, waking up every nerve ending in my body. It’s all I can do not to cross the room to her, touch her,taste her.
Instead, I keep my feet planted. The fact that we’re even having this conversation feels big. I don’t want to react too eagerly and scare her off.
“Me too,” I finally say, realizing that for the first time, the words are true. I love hockey. Ireallylove hockey. There aren’t very many things I would choose to do instead.
But hanging out with Gracie? I don’t even have to think about it.
“We can always text,” I say.
“And we can make the most of the time we have before you leave,” she says.
Don’t freak out, Felix. Don’t. Freak. Out.
She could be talking about friendship. That’s what she said, after all. I was a goodfriend.
“We absolutely can,” I say.
She stands and stretches her arms over her head. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Maybe make a salad? Just use whatever is in the fridge.”
“Perfect. I’m going to change into something more comfortable first, but it will only take me a second. I’ll be right back.”
“No rush. I still have to cook the pasta.”
While she’s gone, I can’t stop thinking about how much I love the idea of us cooking together, hanging out in the kitchen like it’s no big deal. That’s what it needs to be tonight: no big deal, which means I need to get my erratic emotions under control.
My pregame mantra pops into my head, and I repeat it a few times.
I’m steady. I’m focused. No one controls me but me.
Before a game, it helps me get in the zone, shut out all distractions. Tonight, I just hope it will help me keep my cool.
When Gracie returns to the kitchen barefoot, in black leggings that hug her curves, an oversized sweatshirt that’s already fallen off of one of her shoulders, and glasses, her hair piled on top of her head, I give up. There is no way I’m keeping my cool tonight.
This deconstructed version of Gracie—I didn’t even know she wore glasses—is incredibly sexy.
She opens the fridge and pulls out a bag of mixed greens. “I assume we’re starting with this? What else?”
We fall into an easy rhythm as we cook, talking, laughing, moving around each other as we pull the meal together. As nervous as I am, Gracie is really easy to talk to. She’s generous with her praise, she’s quick to laugh, and though her bare pantry shelves made it seem like she doesn’t do a lot of cooking, she’s obviously comfortable in the kitchen.
More importantly, she seems comfortable around me. Like she’s genuinely happy to be here.
Even though I’ve learned how to minimize my social anxiety, it still works to convince me that even when social situations seem to be goingright,they are probably only seconds away from goingwrong.If someone says to me, “I had a really great time tonight,” my first impulse is to think, “Did you, though? Or are you just saying that to be nice?”
It’s not healthy. And recognizing that makes it easier for me to dismiss the thoughts when they come and focus on being present in the moment instead.
I’m loving being present with Gracie, feeling every sensation, every pulse of my heartbeat, every thrill over the small touches we share as we move around the kitchen.
Once the meal is ready, I finally shift the box of youth hockey jerseys to the floor under the window so we can eat at the kitchen table like civilized humans. Gracie carries our plates over, setting them on either side of the same corner instead of on opposite ends of the table. She grabs the bowl of salad next, and I retrieve a bottle of wine from the fridge and two glasses from the cabinet.
