Page 33 of The Frathole
This is new information. “She thinks I’m cute? What? I wanna die.” As my chest tightens like I’m about to have a panic attack, I press my hand against it and hurry off, Ryan keeping right behind me.
“Dude,” he says en route to my room.
“Just leave me the fuck alone, will you?” I spit out.
I keep on to my room, and as I get to it, I head in, slamming the door behind me. Right now, I’m really hating that it was my idea that he roomed with me, since I wish I could lock him out. I’m waiting for him to barge in, but he knocks.
“Mart…come on. Talk to me. Please.”
This must be one of the few times he’s actually respected me enough to give me space and not come barging in.
I take a few breaths, feeling the tightness in my chest loosening, but not much.
“Please, Mart,” he says again, his voice muffled from the other side.
At this point, I’m so worked up, I feel like it’d actually feel better if we were fighting, so I open the door, and he stands on the other side, his head tucked low, like a kid who’s gotten into trouble.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Sure.”
I start toward my bed, but now that he’s in here, all the pent-up frustration and rage from downstairs breaks through the surface.
“Why did you do that to me? Why would you put me in a situation with a girl I actually stood a chance with and torture me in front of her?”
“Okay, clearly the kiss was a bridge too far and touched anerve. What’s going on?”
This is what’s been building since he first made the suggestion. This secret I keep that feels so goddamn shameful, it hurts. So I tell him. “I suck at kissing. Are you happy?”
His expression sobers. “Huh?”
He says that like he can’t fathom the idea—and of course he can’t! He’s fucking Ryan Lorde. He’s got game. He’s had so much practice, he couldn’t suck at kissing if he tried.
“I’m not a good kisser,” I repeat, mortified I’ve revealed this much, but glad it’s out and now he can leave me the fuck alone. I spin back to the bed. “Will you leave now?”
Now that my anger has settled, I realize what a stupid-ass thing it was to share with him—this vulnerability I wouldn’t even confide in Ash or Lance. I don’t want him to see me like this.
“Please go,” I whisper.
Ryan doesn’t budge. I’m about to demand he leave when he asks, “How do you know that?”
“I’ve had girlfriends tell me.”
“Like, many girlfriends?”
It was one girl, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?” he asks.
I glare at him. “This is your response when I tell you this deeply personal thing? It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”
“This is important information, though. If you’d told me, we would’ve started in a completely different place. This is like emergency-intervention shit.”
Emergency intervention? He sure has a way of making it sound even worse. “Will you stop making fun of me?”
Ryan approaches. “Dude, I’m not making fun of you.” He starts like he’s about to put his hand on my shoulder, but stops himself, surely because of all the times I’ve told him to keep his hands off me tonight.
“You think maybe that’s why you have a hard time flirting with girls?” he asks.
