Chapter 13
Tristan
Well shit.
It doesn’t matter that part of me was feeling exactly like that’s what this needed to be.
A transaction.
I just hadn’t called it that in my head, and until Jesse went and said it, I hadn’t realized just how sleezy that feels.
Had I thought though that I’d owe Jesse for letting me crash here?
Yeah, I had.
And what did I have to pay him back with?
Add in the fact that I’d already wanted to let him fuck me, and it all seemed like a pretty sweet arrangement for everyone involved.
Had I spent the last ten or so minutes talking myself into thinking it would be a solid way to numb those other feelings—the dangerous ones—that won’t stop trying to trick me into thinking that maybe that’s not all I want from him?
Yeah.
Would that have actually worked?
Probably not. But whatever. I’ve dealt with worse than a stupid crush. Not that that’s even what this is anyway.
Wasn’t that why I’d already been debating whether to just say fuck it and let myself go for it with Jesse?
Yeah, it was.
It’s what I’d been going over and over in my head as I’d tried to paint, even before I’d realized the reason why it was getting colder in my ice box of an apartment rather than warmer was because the heater was busted and I had no fucking clue how to fix the damn thing.
Now? Standing here in Jesse’s apartment that not only smells like him but looks and feels like him too—sorta rumpled and mismatched and messy and worn around the edges, but warm and comfortable and safe—and hearing him call out the bullshit I’d been trying to pull?
Now, I feel dirty. And not in a remotely good way.
I feel like exactly what I am; not good enough for someone like him.
Which comes back to why I’d run out on him earlier tonight.
Not because I think if things were to go anywhere between us that he’d end up knocking me around or fucking with my head until I believe every goddamn thing he threw at me, like what happened with fucking Josh, but because things between us never could go anywhere.
For starters, I just don’t do that shit. And I don’t want to.
Besides, even if that sexy, doesn’t-know-how-hot-he-is, too-sweet-to-be-true thing he’s got going on winds up making me forget that, there’s still no way we’d get all that far past just fucking around anyway.
Nope, he'd get down beneath the cute, perky surface of me, take one look at what’s really there, and that would be the end of that.
Whatever though. Considering that I went into our date eyes wide open to the extremely obvious reality that things between us could never be more than the sort of one-and-done that’s become my usual, the truth definitely shouldn’t sting.
Which it doesn’t, by the way. Like, at all.
“Jesus, Tris, I didn’t mean it to sound like that—” In the span of the seconds it’s taken for my thoughts to spiral down that rabbit hole, Jesse’s face has reached an all-time high of redness as he stammers on, more tongue-tied than I’ve ever heard him before as he trips over his words, “I just don’t want you to feel— I’d never want— That was—”
I open my mouth to tell him I was just kidding, 'cause what’s better than playing stupid shit off as a joke?
Instead, for some reason that may or may not have to do with my heart giving a skippy little swoop at hearing that sweet, shortened version of my name slip out of him so easily, what I hear myself saying instead is, “Nothing with you could be just a transaction to me.”
Shit, shit. Shit—
What the actual fuck did I just say?
‘Cause that? Totally did not sound like a joke. Or remotely like anything I’d ever want to say.
Ever.
Not in my own head, and sure as hell not out fucking loud.
And what am I doing now? Because somehow, I’ve gotten myself stuck, just standing here, staring at him like I have fucking stars in my eyes and little goddamn hearts hovering around my head.
No matter how bad I wish I could, there’s no taking back that shit I just blurted, and apparently there’s no stopping my mouth either ‘cause, “I like you, sunshine—” His name comes out like a question, and I guess it is.
Jesse must think so too ‘cause he nods a quick, jerky little nod that doesn’t do a thing to shut me up as my mouth keeps running on whether I want it to or not.
And oh, what the fuck am I saying?
“It’s—” Fuck. “It’s why I freaked out tonight and blew you off at my door. I realized I wanted more of tonight. Like, for us to get to know each other, you know? Spend time together? I didn’t want to just fuck around and then never talk to you again.”
Apparently, I’ve run out of shit to say ‘cause the stream of words finally stops. I look up from the floor where I’d been staring at the spot a few inches in front of Jesse’s bare feet to find him staring back at me with an honest-to-god open mouth. Like a cartoon version of himself come to life.
And then that open mouth, gaping look of surprise morphs into a smile that fills my stomach with that same hurricane of butterflies from that crazy moment when he just showed up, out of nowhere, at my door.
“I’m not following your logic about what the problem is.” He gives his head a bemused little shake that I’m not too caught up in my own shit to realize is totally fucking adorable.
For a second, he rocks forward on the balls of his feet, like he’s about to take a step toward me, but then he rocks right back, sinking his hands deep inside the pockets of his red and black plaid flannel pjs. ‘Cause of course this guy has actual pjs.
“I don’t do that.” Yet again, without my really meaning to, I’m spouting off shit that I haven’t even let myself think in my own head, let alone planned to say out loud.
My voice is a weird sort of choked whisper now, and my throat suddenly feels raw, like I might actually tear up if I’m not careful. “I don’t even know if I can. But,” I swallow hard, squeezing my eyes shut for a sec, “I think you make me want to try. You know? Just…see where things go?”
What. The actual. Fuck? This guy has no idea what’s wrong with me, why I’m acting like what should be a totally normal interaction, not some forced, over emotional soap opera, is such a huge fucking deal.
What the hell does he think of me by now? First, I come over here and essentially proposition him, and now here I am, getting all choked up and emotional, when all I needed to do was play the first fuck up off as a joke and get on with getting over this totally out of control shit show.
Well, at least I can call it like it is.
“I’m being a total weirdo, aren’t I?” The laugh I let out may or may not sound a little deranged, but thank god Jesse joins me, a real, bright, beaming smile breaking across his sweet, still flaming red face.
“Like I’d know. You did hear me at the restaurant tonight, right? Who the hell talks about medieval execution methods on a first date?”
And just like that, we’re both laughing, maybe harder than the situation calls for, hard enough that when the two of us finally stop, I have to reach up and wipe my eyes. It’s not enough though, because the damn things just won’t stop tearing up. The absolute last fucking thing I need.
In a flimsy-ass attempt at self-preservation, I make to turn away from Jesse’s blue-grey stare that feels like it’s lasering right through me and into the mixed-up places deep inside that I don’t want to look at, let alone let him see, but as soon as I move, he moves too.
One big, warm, gentle hand catches me by the shoulder while the fingers of the other sweep over my cheeks. One after the other.
Honest to god wiping away my tears, like it’s just some normal thing to do and not legitimately the sweetest way anyone’s ever touched me before.
Is this guy for real?
“Are you alright?”
There isn’t an ounce of accusation in his voice, but I can’t help the way I flinch under his touch, exactly the same as if there had been.
“Yeah, totally fine.”
I paste on a grin, about to shake his hand off me, but there’s this line on his forehead, right between his eyebrows, that my eyes suddenly catch on. That line’s always there, but now, as he stares at me, so close that I could count his golden-brown eyelashes, it pulls deeper.
Why, I have no fucking clue, but that totally does me in, and instead of pulling away from his touch, suddenly I’m leaning into it, shaking my head.
“No,” I swallow hard, hating the stinging ache in my throat almost as much as I hate the fact that he’s seeing me for the screwed-up wreck that I am. All messed up and broken and good for nothing. “Not really.”
His fingers glide down from my cheek to cup the angle of my jaw.
That damn crease on his forehead is deeper than ever, and his mouth twists in this sympathetic sort of smile that makes me want to run as far away from him as possible, exactly at the same time as it makes me want to wrap myself up in him, and, for just one goddamn moment, feel safe even if it’s nothing but a pretty illusion.
“Can I?” he whispers, and I know he’s asking if he can kiss me.
Hell yes, my thoughts scream, but that damn stinging in my throat is worse than ever, and all I can do is nod and hope that this time, he believes that I actually want it.
Honestly, kissing isn’t even really my thing.
Still, that he’d ask me like that first is just too sweet for words.
Maybe that’s why, when he moves in toward me, I can’t help just kinda melting into him.
And nope, totally not responsible for the choked little hum of sound I let out as his arms close around my body, ‘cause of course they have to go and be every bit as warm and gentle and softly firm as I’d known they’d be.
He doesn’t kiss me though. Not like I thought he would.