Page 39 of As the Years Pass
“That isn’t good enough!” he shouts, stepping closer to me. “You’re the only person I have right now.”
I frown, not knowing what the hell that means.
Drunk talk, I guess. People get sad when they’re drunk. They do stupid things when they’re drunk, like say things they don’t mean and then later regret.
Whatever he says right now, it’s not real.
“You gave me your number so we could talk and hang out, yet you’ve ignored me for over a week. What is going on?” he pushes.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to spill everything to him, but nothing comes out. Nothing at all.
“Emmet!” he shouts, giving me a shove.
I don’t understand what he’s so mad about. Just because I haven’t talked to him in a week? I mean, I get being frustrated, but we only just started talking again. This can’t be just about that, can it?
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I say.
“Tell me why you don’t like me!”
My chest tightens at those words.
If only he knew how wrong he was.
If only he knew how much I love him.
If only he knew that I breathe for him.
His hair is sopping wet, and so are his clothes. Thick drops of water slide down his face, and I’d love nothing more than to lick each and every one of them up. I’d spend more time around his lips, because they’re so full and so soft and I miss the hell out of them.
“I just have a lot going on,” I repeat, not wanting to put any of my shit on him. He’s dealing with his own stuff; he doesn’t need to deal with me too. As much as I want him in my life, I can’thave him around just for someone to unload on. He deserves the good parts of me, which I haven’t seen in a long time. I need to find those pieces of me to give to him.
I thought I was ready for that when I came here, because my mother urged me to do so and told me I was. But after losing her… I’m not so sure anymore.
“Emmet—” He moves closer to shove me again, his hands on my chest, but he doesn’t apply pressure. His hands stay there, pressing against my now soaked shirt. The heat of his palms soak through, seeping into my skin. His gaze dips to my mouth and stays there. He doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t pull away. His eyes fall shut and he swallows hard. Then his head falls forward.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, so low I almost don’t hear him over the pounding of the rain.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say, trying to calm my own erratic heart.
He shakes his head, his hands sliding down my chest until they rest at his sides. I want to grab them and throw them around my neck, spin him around and slam him against the wall so my body can press against his. I want his warmth on me. I want to explore every bit of him, relearn every curve, taste every inch.
Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes and finds mine. “I want to be friends. I need a friend,” he says desperately.
“So do I,” I admit, hating myself for it. I don’t like being weak, especially in front of him. I was always the one to take care of him, and I cannot let him think he has to take care of me. I don’t need to be a burden on him.
His lips turn into a small smile. “Good.” He steps back, taking another deep breath. “You should come by on Saturday.”
“Come by…”
“My house. The kids and I are having a pizza night. We’re going to make pizza from scratch. I may burn the house down, but I’d love for you to be there.”
“So I’ll burn to the ground too?”
He barks out a laugh, his eyes shining.
“I’ll bring my fire extinguisher,” I add.
His smile grows. “Thank you.”
