Page 22 of Don't Be My Valentine

“Of course,” Summer said, her lips pulling straight at the corners. She looked out the window again. “Of course. I’m not saying there are emotions, Matt. I’m just saying that we’d better talk this out if we’re planning on ending the confusion and stopping the mistakes.”

“We agreed we’d leave it where it was.”

She exhaled slowly. “I see.”

“What?”

“You can just leave everything unspoken. Cool. Let’s just go back to the hotel. I need to get some rest if I’m going to, somehow, by a miracle, lead this dance lesson tomorrow.”

“Summer,” I said, but thoughts and words stalled on my tongue.

I wasn’t good with this emotional shit. Things had transpired between us. The world had grown complicated and hurtful and sour, and I’d walked away. She’d done the same. We’d agreed, though not technically mutually, that we were done talking, touching, longing, and all the other shit young assholes did when they thought they were in love.

“Summer.”

“What?” She turned her head, strands of gold falling from her messy bun. “Can we just go already? I don’t have time for this.”

“You were the one who wanted to talk.”

“Look,” she said, “you were right. It’s clearly a waste of time talking about the past.”

“Surely, you can understand why.” I had lost my mother. I still blamed myself for that.

She shrugged. “You know what I mean. Pain aside, we come from different worlds, Matt. Just because we lived under the same roof for a while doesn’t mean anything. You had the worst agony, and you’ve turned into…” She gestured toward me. “And I’ve got nothing to show for the years.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t been lucky. I haven’t worked hard enough? What do you want me to say to you? That I’m not as good as you?” She raised an eyebrow.

“No, I meant why is that an issue now?”

“It’s not,” she said. “I’m just trying to get through to you here. I don’t have time for fuck-ups between us or romance in general. I have to focus on what’s important. Making my dreams come true. Making my life better. God, just making ends meet would be a great start.”

“Everything will remain uncomplicated,” I said. “And if you want, I’ll help you teach the class. So you can…”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Summer,” I said. “I wasn’t making a suggestion. You don’t want things to be complicated? Being friendly will be easier than not talking at all. Let me help you out. My sister’s paying you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you need the money for school, correct?”

“Yes.” She chewed on her bottom lip, and I imagined stopping her with my tongue, my hands, my mouth.

I exhaled. “Look, I’m not into talking about emotions and crap, but the practical stuff? That I can do.” I started the engine and pulled out of the lot. “Let’s get you back to the hotel and settled in. Elevate that ankle.”

“Thanks,” she said reluctantly.

“Any time.” I kept my eyes on the road, avoiding glancing at her at all costs. I couldn’t admit, not for a second, and definitely not out loud, that talking about the past and us was a fast track toward another hot night in her bedroom.

I didn’t do emotional things for people. I protected, I helped, and I controlled bad situations. That was me in a nutshell. In a world where emotional reactions could lead to panic and death, I wanted to be the one who was always collected. Willing to do the right thing rather than the emotional thing.

Perhaps if I’d done that in the first place, I would never have lost my mother. Or Summer.

I had to stop. This was nothing. A holiday fuck. That was all. A blast from the past. Nothing more. It didn’t matter that Summer’s pain had started a knot in the center of my chest. Or that I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and not just the curvy delicious parts of her anatomy.

Keep telling yourself that.

.

Chapter Eleven

Summer

“This is so fucking stupid,” I whispered under my breath. “So stupid.”

If I’d just been more careful at volleyball the previous day, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have to sit here, at the front of the ballroom, my butt in a chair as everyone filed in looking either confused or hungover.

Apparently, there’d been another amazing party the night before. This one, I was glad I’d missed. It had given me the chance to lie around in the hotel room, eating mini-fridge nuts and watching old movies. Forgetting Sarah Marshall was both funny and sad, and my mind had constantly wandered back to Matt.

The handsome untouchable man who didn’t want to talk about feelings but preferred to pretend there was nothing going on. Which was good, of course—we didn’t want anything to be going on. And bad because, well, fuck him! He could pretend that we’d had nothing all he wanted, but this was difficult.

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