Page 93 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
She smooths her shirt down, doesn’t meet my eyes. “Food’s going cold.”
I want to kiss her again. Every careful rule she’s written to keep us apart? I want to ruin them all.
Instead, I grab a fork and force myself to sit at the counter. I try not to look at her thighs when she walks past to put things away.
She’s pretending it didn’t happen. Pretending I don’t get under her skin the same way she’s gotten under mine. Fine. If she wants to keep it fake, I’ll keep it fake. I’m good at pretending. Good at keeping things bottled up until they rot.
It’s not like I’m boyfriend material anyway. We both know that.
The salmon is incredible, perfectly cooked and seasoned. The meal that takes time and thought; it’s not something you throw together on a whim.
“This is amazing,” I tell her.
“Thanks. I used to cook for Patrick sometimes when he felt stressed about work.
The mention of her ex makes something ugly twist in my chest. “He was lucky.”
“He never seemed to think so.”
“There are a lot of things I would do differently if I were in his place.”
She gulps, looking down at the table, the back of her neck growing pink.
“Thanks.”
Later, when she disappears into her room, I blast music in mine and try not to picture her in my shirt, legs wrapped around me, eyes full of heat and want.
I fail miserably. I fist my cock and jerk off while I picture her spread out on my bed, still wearing that shirt but nothing else. Think about what she’d taste like, what sounds she’d make when I made her come. It’s so hot that I blow my load after only a minute.
Fuck, she’s driving me crazy.
The orgasm is unsatisfying, so I plow right through, fist working hard against my dick. The whole time, I’m promising myself that after this orgasm, I’ll have had enough. My consuming crush on Juliet will end and we’ll go back to being awkward, distant enemies.
We are supposed to be enemies, after all.
When I come the second time, still quicker than I’d like, I feel empty. If anything, I feel lonelier than I did before.
And Juliet is still on my mind.Damn her.
After everything’s calmed down and I’ve gotten myself together, I’m in my room with the door cracked open, trying to cool off and pretend I have any self-control left.
I hear her padding down the hall in bare feet, then a light knock on my door.
“Sorry,” she says, opening the door just a little without stepping inside. “I can’t find my phone charger. It might be in your car.”
“I have a few extra.” I gesture toward my closet. “If one of those doesn’t work, I can run downstairs soon.”
I watch her cross the room carefully, like she doesn’t want to intrude on my space. She opens the closet slowly and crouches down to a box filled with carefully spooled cables, sitting on the floor next to my hockey gear.
Shit. I glance at the shoebox that I keep pushed back behind my equipment bag. It’s filled with my journals and my unsent letters. It usually has a lid on it to deter any prying eyes. But for some reason, the lid is askew and the contents are easy to reach.
Why didn’t I just get the fucking phone charger for her?
Juliet doesn’t see the box at first. But when she shifts the box of cables to get a better line of sight, the letter slips free from where I’d shoved it inside.
Handwritten envelope. My mother’s name scrawled across the front in my messy handwriting.
I tense, my whole body locking up like I’m about to get hit.
