Oh, yes, I’ll be making this fun for sure.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ELI
I hate myself.
I really, truly hate myself.
Well, if we’re hating people, I’m going to throw some hate toward Pacey as well because he’s the goddamn reason my lips aren’t currently on Penny’s. Why she ran out of this apartment, and why she isn’t returning my texts.
He’s the goddamn reason I took a step back and told her I can’t, even though I want to so fucking bad. Jesus Christ, just tasting her delicious mouth all over again took me back to the night I haven’t stopped dreaming about. The night I wish I could play over and over and over again.
Her mouth on mine felt like a goddamn whirlwind of emotions and flashbacks, and I’m still reeling.
Pacey specifically told me not to go near her.
Not to touch her.
To keep things platonic.
And like the dumbass that I am, I’m honoring that request. All because I broke his trust the first time, I’m trying not to do it a second time.
But fuck . . .
The door to the apartment opens, and I crank my head to the front door, where I see her walk through. She shuts the door behind her, locks up, and then takes off her shoes and puts them in the entryway closet.
Here we go . . .
I stand from the couch and stick my hands in my pockets, really unsure of what to do at this moment.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks my way. “Hi.” She smiles and then moves toward the kitchen.
She’s smiling?
Not only is she smiling but there’s also a cheeriness in her voice that raises the hair on the back of my neck. Warning. Warning. Proceed with caution.
If you’re thinking, you should be scared, Eli, you’re right. Given her past hormonal changes, this could be a real doozy.
And I don’t know how to react to that other than in fear. My belly button’s all puckered up, shrinking as she moves around the kitchen, grabbing herself water. With every cabinet that’s shut, my belly button winces, turning into nothing but a divot of dust.
“Uh, do you . . . do you want to talk?” I ask.
She looks up at me. “I’m good, Eli. Seriously.” She smiles again, and I nearly wince from the flash of her teeth. “Everything is okay between us. Okay?”
“Uh . . . oh-kay,” I say, uncertainty beating through me at an uncomfortable, rapid rate.
“Great. So, do you want to watch some Ozark?” She walks over to the couch, reaches for the remote, and turns on the TV as she takes a seat and curls her legs under her.
I stand there, awkwardly, still very much confused.
And slightly frightened.
Is something going to happen to me if I take a seat next to her? Did she not just go in the kitchen for water? Did she slip a knife under her shirt, and I didn’t see it?
What happens if I don’t take a seat? Will she lash out? Start crying? Act normal?
I really wish there was a how-to guide on how to handle this current situation. A situation where I got my best friend’s sister pregnant, moved in with her platonically, and then kissed her again when I shouldn’t have but then pulled away and made her cry.
Where is the goddamn how-to book for that?
“Why are you being weird? Sit down.” She pats the couch.
I’m being weird? Me?
Uh, last I knew, she was crying and upset, and now, she’s acting as if nothing had happened. Where did she even go? A place that erases memory? Is Men in Black real?
Carefully, I take a seat, making sure to keep a good distance between us, just in case. And then she starts the show. She watches intently while I keep one eye on the TV and one eye on her.
Maybe this is a pregnancy thing, like a hormone switch. But she seems so cool and calm. It’s just . . . alarming.
I’m tempted to text Posey and ask him for advice, but I also don’t want her to think I’m texting about her since I never text while we watch Ozark. So instead, I just sit there and watch, hoping that she’s right, that everything is going to be okay, while still keeping one eye on her . . . you know, in case there is a knife under her shirt.
“Have you seen my lotion?” Penny says as she comes out of the bathroom after getting ready for bed.
I think God hates me. I really do. I did something wrong in this lifetime, and I’m being punished for it because standing right in front of me, in a skintight, white tank top—no bra—is Penny, and I can fucking see everything.
EVERYTHING!
The curve of her breasts.
Her areolas.
Her . . . nipples.
Not to mention, she’s wearing underwear that cuts high on her hip instead of shorts. Not quite sure where her pajama sets went, but this . . . uh, this is not what I’m used to. And under any other circumstance, I’d be welcoming the outfit, pulling her down on my lap and sucking on her taut little nipples through the thin fabric.