“Nice,” he says as I turn back toward the window. “Very supportive.”
I laugh, giddy with alcohol and a strange nervousness.
We travel for a few more blocks in silence, and the driver turns on the radio. We’ve brought a weird energy into his car, with our mindless debate and me so close to the window he probably thinks I’m going to shove my head through it and start barking. My hair flies around my head like a shield of golden whips, which was not intended as a tactic but is a welcome side effect.
“Do you feel sick?” Deiss asks over the tinny pop song that plays through the speakers.
“No.” The word twists with defensiveness, and I glance back at him in spite of myself, searching for some explanation for the question.
He meets my eyes, his lighter against the brightness of the sun, glittering like sapphires. My stomach fills with butterflies, fluttering anxiously. I try to turn away, but he places his hand on my arm.
“Hey,” he says softly. A strand of hair whips around my neck, and he reaches up, his fingers sliding across my skin as he pulls it free. “You know I don’t really expect you to stay with me forever.”
“I know,” I mumble, distracted by his hand resting on my shoulder, still holding back my hair.
“It’s just that you pretty much stopped looking at me after that conversation.” His eyes scan my face like he’s searching for answers in the curve of my cheek or the bow of my upper lip.
I force a breezy laugh. “What are you talking about? I’ve looked at you.”
“No, you haven’t.” His confidence in the assertion is as resolute as it is warranted.
The truth is, I haven’t looked at him, not since right after that when the bizarre lustiness occurred. I just need a little bit of space to get my head right, to get things back to normal between us. I need him to be the Deiss he was before, enigmatic and distant, not the new, open Deiss.
But that can’t be right, is it?
I like understanding what makes Deiss so uniquely himself. And I like the closeness between us ever since he picked me up from the airport. I enjoy laughing with him over a bad TV show and drinking coffee with him silently in the morning. He’s not the problem. I am.
I’ve allowed eleven years of friendship to make me stupid. It might sound harsh, but in this situation, harshness is warranted. A smart woman doesn’t allow herself to settle into a routine with a man, expecting him to be around night after night.
It’s a mistake I haven’t made since the tenth grade, when Elliot Davenport’s touch and pretty words made my skin tingle with excitement. He pretended not to know me the next day. He didn’t even brag about taking my virginity. Clearly, it wasn’t valuable enough to be boasted about. But the experience taught me that loss of control leads straight to heartbreak.
Since then, I’ve only dated men who are attractive in a bland Ken doll way. The kind of men who are likely to reveal a smooth curve of plastic should their pants come off. When I sleep with someone, it’s because I’ve chosen to, not because I couldn’t restrain myself. It’s after the fifth date, once they’ve invested an appropriate amount of time and money into me and there’s been talk of exclusivity. Sometimes I even enjoy it. But I never, ever lose myself in it.
If I’ve allowed myself to develop some kind of ill-advised crush on Deiss, I deserve to be defined as stupid. But I don’t have to stay that way. I can control this situation.
“Not everyone has to look at you all the time, Deiss.” It’s a tricky balance, delivering an icy barb while keeping my tone breezy and light.
A flicker of hurt flashes across his face. “I know.”
“Do you?” I don’t even know what I’m doing. There must be a way to push him away without insulting him, but I don’t have time to figure it out. “You did grow up with cameras in your face. Maybe that’s why you expect everyone to be obsessed with you.”
His eyes narrow, swirling storms of blue that threaten to suck me in. I meet them, keeping mine deliberately blank. A frown tugs at Deiss’s mouth.
Then, as quick as the flick of a switch, his brow unfurrows and the storms blink out into two impenetrable seas. An easy smile stretches across his face. “You think so?”
No. I do not think so. I know, in fact, that it was a horribly unfair thing to say to him, and he didn’t deserve it.
“Maybe.” I shrug away my discomfiture. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Perfect sense,” he says smoothly.