Page 135 of Collision
“Frustrating, right?” I give him a poke and then walk away toward the bed. When I get there, I fish my little frog-shaped mask out of the blankets and put it on my forehead before lying down.
“What are you doing?”
“What I was doing before you showed up and my mother started freaking out: sleeping.”
“Do you sleep with that thing on your head?” he asks mockingly.
“It’s for my eyes. Don’t make fun,” I say. “And, just to be clear, ‘that thing’ has a name.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“His name is Froggy.”
“You’re not well.”
“And you are cordially invited to leave. Thanks.”
“It’s almost eight o’clock. Don’t you have any extra nerd activities?”
“Not today.” I roll over on my side, pull the comforter up to my chin and tug the mask down over my eyes. “Shut the door when you go.”
Thomas doesn’t answer me. I hear the hardwood floor squeaking under his feet, but instead of moving away he moves closer. The mattress dips down and I turn sharply, lifting my mask. I see him sitting there, intent on removing his jacket and shoes.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m staying here,” he says resolutely, not even looking at me.
I snort. “No you’re not.”
He turns to me and slips under the covers. “You left without giving me any warning. So now you owe me a proper wake-up call. Cover your eyes with this ridiculous toad and go to sleep.”
I scowl at him. “And in the meantime? What do you plan to do?”
“Momo, Sparky, and I will devise a plan to finish you off, like a serial killer in a true crime documentary,” he answers, giving the stuffedanimals at the end of the bed an intimidating stare. I shake my head, equal parts resigned and amused. I pull Froggy over my eyes and lie down with my back to him.
He leans close to my ear and whispers, “Your mother has a few screws loose, Ness. But you with this little mask surpass her by far.” I burst out laughing and he does the same, resting his forehead in the juncture where my neck meets my shoulder. He kisses me behind the ear, wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close to him. “Now sleep,” he murmurs into my hair. And I do. I fall asleep with a smile on my lips and crazed butterflies darting around in my stomach.
Thirty-Four
Thomas surrounds me completely with the warmth of his body. My back is pressed against his chest and his arm encircles my waist. His face is buried in my hair. I can feel his slow, relaxed breathing against my neck. Finally feeling rested, I pull Froggy off my eyes and blink as I get used to the light dimly filtering through the curtains.
Unable to hold back my grin, I stare at Thomas’s hand on my belly. I find myself tracing the veins that run down the back of it with my index finger. I touch the wounds on his knuckles and then the Old School–style letters that spell his sister’s name.
I like his hands. They are large, rough, and enveloping. Under their touch, I feel protected from everything. But, more than anything else, I like waking up and finding him beside me. If I didn’t know the way things really are between us, I would even allow myself the luxury of dreaming of awakening in such a way for the rest of my days. Instead, I force myself to drive this image out of my mind and try to come to terms with the reality. The same reality that drove me out of Thomas’s apartment this morning and reminds me even now how wrong this all is. Yes,wrong. Because even though it is becoming increasingly harder to ignore the feelings that connect me to him, I still can’t even pretend that the kind of situationship he’s suggesting is okay by me.
Gently, I lift his arm off of me and sit up on the edge of the bed. Only then do I remember to look at the alarm clock. I’m bewilderedto see that it’s already two o’clock in the afternoon. Have I really been sleeping all this time?
“So you’ve finally decided to open your eyes.” His low, hoarse voice startles me; I thought he was still asleep.
He reaches out a hand across the mattress, brushing my fingers, but I pull back. It’s not what I want to do, not even close. But I can’t take the risk of falling back into bad habits again. I need to break these patterns for myself. I know that, if I let him get close to me, it will happen again. It always happens.
“You didn’t have to stay here the whole time,” I manage. When I pick up my phone from the bedside table, I have five missed calls. All from Logan.
My eyes bug.
Logan.
Suddenly, the big bubble I have sealed myself inside for these last two days pops, and I crash to the ground, forced to face reality. And my reality has me in a choke hold of guilt.
