Page 66 of Night Shift

“I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I memorized poems for you because I wanted to be able to talk to you about the shit you like.” He lowers his voice. “And I ate you out because it was my birthday, and all I wanted was to make you come. That was for me, Kendall. All of that was for me. I didn’t do it just to be nice. I did it because I. Like. You.”

I’m light-headed.

My brain is legitimately short-circuiting. All I can do is stand there with my mouth hanging open, swaying and clutching the sunflowers like a life raft, as I stare up into Vincent Knight’s enormous brown eyes and my cerebral cortex tries to fuck me over. But there’s no evidence that this is a joke or a lie, or that I’ve somehow misinterpreted his words. There’s no room for error. There’s no room for me to overthink it.

I. Like. You.

“But aren’t you mad?” I croak.

Vincent holds his arms out wide, palms up. “Of course I’m mad. You’re telling me you ran out on me because you assumed I only hooked up with you to impress my friends. I’m mad you thought I would do that. I’m mad I didn’t take the time to introduce you to everyone on the team so you wouldn’t feel so nervous and weirded out. I rushed this—right from the fucking start—and I don’t know how to take it slow with you, and it makes me feel stupid and selfish and out of my goddamned mind. So yeah. I’m fucking furious, Holiday. But none of that changes how I feel about you.”

I really need to sit down, I think numbly. But we’re in the middle of the aisle, and the nearest chairs are all the way at the front of the bookstore by the magazines, and oh my God, I think I’m in shock or something?

“I’m supposed to be the one grand gesturing you,” I argue weakly.

Vincent folds his arms across his chest. “You’re not grand gesturing me, Holiday. Not on my watch.”

I hold his note up. “I’m literally grand gesturing you right now.”

“Well, knock it off. Maybe I want to be the hero for once, even though my dad’s not a billionaire and I’m not in the fucking Mafia—”

“Okay, first off,” I interrupt, “sports romance is a thing. You’re a Division I basketball player with pretty eyes and floppy hair. You’re not exactly an underrepresented population in the genre.” I would stop to appreciate how utterly endearing it is when Vincent blushes, but I’m on a roll. “And secondly, I’ve had enough of you talking about me and my standards. What I want to read about in books isn’t necessarily what I want in a boyfriend. And you’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend anyway, so I don’t know why you think you wouldn’t be—”

It’s Vincent’s turn to interrupt me. “How did you know I’ve never dated anyone?”

“Jabari. He found me on campus today. We talked.”

“I told him to leave you alone.”

“Well, he put in a really good word for you.”

“I’m still going to kill him.”

I roll my eyes.

“Look,” I say, “all I’m trying to say is that I’m not expecting you to be a character straight out of a romance novel. You’re not fictional. You’re not perfect. But I don’t want you to be, because I’m not perfect either, and it would really suck if I’m the only one who ever puts my foot in my mouth and—”

“We have to learn each other’s language,” Vincent blurts.

I frown.

“It’s like you said about poetry,” he presses on. “We have to learn to speak each other’s language. Get to know each other, so we can pick up all the subtext and shit.”

“I’m pretty sure I never used the phrase subtext and shit.”

“I’m paraphrasing. Sue me.”

But he still makes a compelling point.

We haven’t known each other very long, even though it sometimes feels like it’s been decades since we first kissed in the library during my night shift. Maybe if Vincent and I can start handing each other the puzzle pieces, I’ll stop trying to fill in the gaps myself. And maybe I need to get comfortable with the idea that it’ll take time for us to get there—to a place where we have a full picture of each other.

I should probably start enjoying the process instead of letting the unknown torture me.

“I want to meet all your friends,” I tell him.

Vincent nods immediately. “Good. I want you to.”

“And I’d really like to hear about your family, and what you were like in middle school, and what you want to do after graduation, and—and I want you to teach me everything you know about basketball. Because you don’t get to quote Elizabeth Barrett Browning to me if I can’t talk to you about why the fuck the Clippers traded their first-round draft pick to the Cavs and let them scoop up Kyrie Irving.”

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