Chapter 9
CALEB
We take our time walking back to the shuttle bus, slowing as we make our way along the sidewalk to look at some of the outdoor shop displays.
Dash tries on a vintage sport coat that looks so good on him I have to force myself not to stare.
But when he looks at the price tag, he starts to put it back.
I make him model it for a photo, though, for “posterity.” (And so I have an excuse to have a pic of Dash on my phone. Sue me.)
When we come to the tables outside the bookstore, one piled high with romance novels, he insists on stopping so I can browse.
“No, it's fine. I don't need to.”
“They might have something you'd like.”
“Probably not.”
“Well,” he announces, “I’m going to see what kind of drama section they have. So you’re just going to have to wait for me. What you choose to do with that time is up to you.”
He starts to saunter off into the store, but then, absolutely without intending to, I call after him, “Dash Dalton, are you grand gesturing me?” I immediately want to slap my hand over my stupid mouth.
But it's too late. He's standing in the doorway of the bookshop, giving me a quizzical look.
“Never mind,” I say in a rush. “Forget I—”
But a smile spreads across his face. “You mean like in a movie? Or… a book?”
“I mean… That’s not what a grand gesture even is. Obviously. Anyway, thank you. It’s nice of you. I’ll just take a look through these books.”
My face must be purple. I am so embarrassed. I did not mean for that to come out of my mouth. I don’t even know why I—
But Dash just winks at me and heads into the store.
Leaving me still purple, but with what I’m sure is the dopiest smile ever on my face.
I'm pleasantly surprised to find a couple titles I've seen on MM BookTok I've been meaning to check out. As I pay for them inside, Dash returns. He leans in to peer over my shoulder. “Those aren’t hockey books. They look like fantasy.”
“Romantasy. I'm expanding my horizons.” I smile, and he smiles back at me.
I can feel the heat coming off him. I can smell his cologne, subtle but a little spicy. It blends with the book smell of the shop, and together the combination is just about heav—
The cashier clears her throat to get me to take my change from her outstretched hand.
“Oh, thanks, sorry.”
By the time we make it back to campus, it's dark.
We walk together as far as Stag Square, the open green in the center of campus with the giant bronze statue of a Stag in the middle of it.
The one that, as I understand it, gets wrapped in toilet paper every Halloween.
I briefly wonder if Holy Heart has a statue of a Pine Marten somewhere and if it’s life-sized like this one, because Pine Martens are tiny, and that would be kind of sad.
“So,” Dash says, startling me out of my not-at-all-avoidant internal musings. “I had a really good time today.”
I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Yeah, me too.”
This is where I'd really, really, really like to know if this was, actually, a date. This is the problem with reading so many romance novels. It could be a date. Or, I could just be interpreting it that way because I’m an idiot who reads nothing but romance novels.
“Yeah,” Dash says, his voice noticeably huskier than usual. Which, I will admit, does seem to suggest some kind of romantic-like context.
As does the way he seems to be looking between my lips and eyes and then back to my lips again.
But I don't want to jump to conclusions.
Except, apparently, that's only true of my brain. My body seems to be more than happy to jump away. So happy it jumps onto Dash, totally forgetting its complete and utter lack of experience in this area, and combs its fingers into his hair, pulling him into a full-on, capital “K” Kiss.
“Ow,” says Dash because, yeah, I definitely came in too hard there. But he slides his arms around my waist and pulls me in so we’re flush against each other. Time slows as our lips meet again, gently this time, and Dash really, really kisses me.
The night is getting chilly, but he is so warm. His tongue teases my mouth open. I can feel the slight scratch of his five-o’clock shadow against my cheek. His fingers squeeze against my back, not hard, but like he wants me to know he’s there, and I melt into him.
It’s just a kiss. So tame compared to the stuff I read about in my favorite books. But it’s Dash, and it’s me, and it’s real.
This is really happening.
This is… really happening.
This is really happening.
Oh God.
I push away, take a step back. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
“What? Why?”
“I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to—I just—I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s fine. It’s more than fine. Unless—” But his expression turns concerned. “Are you okay?”
But I'm not, and I don't know how to explain it to him. I don't know what I'm doing. I can't do this. And if we keep going, he’s going to find that out real fast. What happens next? Will he expect me to know things? Will I have to humiliate myself by telling him I don’t? And not just… sex… (although obviously sex), but dating, boyfriends, anything. Suddenly it’s all so much. It’s too much, and I don’t know how anyone does this.
I couldn’t even tell if this was a date.
I like Dash. I want Dash. In all the ways you can want someone, I think. But how can I ever be enough for someone like him? He’s confident. He’s self-assured. And I’m… me.
What did I think, I’d read a few books and then just magically be smooth, cool, not a socially awkward mess? I’ve been kidding myself. For a week, I’ve been showing up and watching practice with him and pretending I could even… Suddenly, I can’t quite seem to get enough air. I feel physically ill.
“Hey,” says Dash. He reaches out and rubs his hand along my arm. “Hey, what’s wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”
Someone catcalls across the quad. “Get a room!”
“No!” I snatch my arm back. “I gotta go.”
And then I run out of there before he can say anything else.