Chapter 9 #2
I’m not the kind of girl that hangs out with a guy on Saturday afternoon.
Definitely not an attractive, popular guy who wants to get ice cream and then browse a bookstore.
I’m not the kind of girl that agrees to spontaneous plans.
I don’t do much socializing, sure, but if I did, it would be on a schedule.
I always have a well-thought-out, highly researched plan of action, one that maps out every potential detour and roadblock and barricade.
Scanning through the discount book bin, I think about the number of times I studied the map of our college campus before the first day of school, committing every route, building code, and classroom number to memory.
I also studied the curves of the paths and the surrounding landmarks on Google Maps.
That way, there would be minimal surprises, and I wouldn’t look like some lost, loser freshman who didn’t know the way.
I think of the very particular schedule I kept in high school.
My friends and I would hit the Starbucks after the final bell, hang out there for an hour max, and then Lizzie would drive me home.
I’d start my homework by five, Mom would have dinner on the table by seven-thirty, and then I’d spend the rest of the evening working on my artistic portfolio. Every day, the same routine.
That is…until that horrible Friday night.
Until the Northland party, a last-minute decision in which I had zero time to prepare.
I didn’t map out the street or the house.
I didn’t plan my clothes out ahead of time or ask who was invited.
There was no exit strategy if the night went sour or signal to my friends if we wanted to leave.
I drank too much, I wore the wrong outfit, I lost track of time, I trusted the wrong people.
I trusted the wrong person.
Things go bad when I’m not in control…which doesn’t explain why it feels right when I’m here with Wes. Why it feels safe and natural and relaxed. His easy grin and kind eyes make me want to let my guard down for once, but what if I’m missing something? What if it’s a mistake? A trap?
You need to be careful.
I know I do, but every time he calls me by one of his nicknames, my guard drops another inch. At this rate, I’ll be completely exposed by March, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing?
Don’t kid yourself.
“Ives, come over here,” Wes calls, his body hidden behind the bookshelf to my right.
I drop the ninety-nine-cent book in my hand and come to a halt in front of a giant cardboard display featuring romance novels of all different tropes. My brows shoot up. “Woah.”
“I knew you hadn’t been over here yet,” he says before studying the categories written across the display. “I know you like romance, but what’s your favorite sub-genre? Age gap? Enemies to lovers? Vampire? Damn, who knew there were so many?” He smirks. “I know which one it’s not.”
My face is flaming now, but I still manage to ask, “Which one?”
He points to the section titled Sports Romance and grabs the first book on the shelf.
“I like them all,” I mutter, though watching this attractive man flip curiously through a novel with a football helmet on the cover, I realize that I should probably stay away from this particular sub-genre.
It might put ideas in my head. Dangerous ones.
Wes freezes on a page three quarters of the way through the book, his eyes widening as he scans the text.
Unmistakable color rises up his neck, blooming over his cheeks as his mouth drops open.
“Jesus Christ, Ives. That’s…that’s graphic.
” He glances down at me in disbelief, and I almost burst out laughing at the look of shock on his face.
“I mean, really graphic. Are they all like this?”
I hold back a smile. “A lot of them are.”
He shakes his head, still incredulous as he returns the book to the shelf. “No wonder women like these so much. I need a cold shower after that.”
Now it’s my turn to blush. Clearing my throat, I follow him into the next aisle, where he peruses the mystery books instead, and allow my heart rate to slowly return to normal.
I want to tell him that women like that stuff because it’s a fantasy.
It’s not real life. Real life romance—I mean true romance—is a myth.
The stuff of legend. Meet-cutes, witty banter, and sweet nothings don’t exist in the real world.
All that lead up and sexual tension and mind-blowing connection can’t be real.
Not when most guys will take advantage at the first opportunity.
The moment you open yourself up to them, show the tiniest bit of interest, they’ll ruin you. They’ll violate your trust and take what they want and rip through your stupid, idiot heart.
They’ll leave it beating, though. Mutilated beyond recognition, but working just enough to keep you alive even though it doesn’t matter if you’re breathing right. It doesn’t matter if the blood’s pumping through your veins or your brain’s sending out signals.
Not when your spirit’s dead.
Not when you’ve given up.