2 #2
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, willing myself to enjoy this. To ignore the thought of Cassie and Atticus alone in the kitchen, to want Grace’s hands on me, to desire grinding against her in Cassie’s living room.
Then, I let her place her hands on my shoulders, and I begin to move too. Not as sensuously, because I really doubt I have that in me, but dancing nonetheless.
“You know,” Grace begins, pressing her hips into me. “I’ve always thought you were very sexy.”
“Didn’t you have a boyfriend?” I ask, my hands tentatively falling to her waist.
This is what I’m supposed to do, right? At our high school grad party, I danced just like this with Cassie.
Grace just laughs. “Yep. I did. But that doesn’t mean I was blind.”
I reckon I’m a hopeless romantic or something else equally sappy, because if I’m going to fuck someone, I want them to only have eyes for me. Why on earth would I date someone who eyes other men? They should be obsessed with me. I should consume them.
Right? God, I hope that’s right.
Not that I would know—outside of high school, where dating was a few months of hand-holding and kissing after football games, I’ve never dated. Not seriously.
“Got it” is all I can manage to reply, because I’m not sure what she’s fishing for.
I don’t have to wonder for long; she tells me.
“Have you? Thought I was sexy, I mean,” Grace presses, using her body to grind against mine.
I will myself to react, to get hard, to want it. But I can’t. I don’t.
“Uh, I think you’re pretty, sure.” For a second, I fear she’ll be offended.
But Grace just grins at my response. “You’re so adorable, Cameron. Seriously. I can’t believe you’re the same guy who constantly annihilated others on the volleyball court two years ago.”
She’s talking about senior year, when I was captain of our volleyball team. What an odd thing to bring up.
“I didn’t know you saw that. Aren’t you older than me?” I ask.
Now this seems to upset her. Grace’s smile falters, her hands tightening on my shoulders.
“Yeah,” she says with a forced laugh. “But I still came to games. Still saw you in action.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
It gets awkward. She looks around briefly, seeming to gather herself. I want to tell her I’m tired and maybe hide out in Cassie’s room for the rest of the night, but I think that might upset a few people, considering this is my party.
“I’d be interested in seeing you in action again. In other ways,” Grace adds, recovering from the awkward tension beautifully.
Dear lord. How am I meant to respond to that? Do I say no thanks? Do I laugh it off? Fuck. I hate this situation just about as much as I hate making any other decision.
But before I can speak, before I can embarrass myself, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My eyes lift, and I spot Atticus leaning against the wall where I was when he arrived, Cassie next to him as she speaks into his ear.
Despite her conversing, he is not looking in her direction. No, he’s staring straight at me.
Can he see it? Can he see how badly I’m fucking this up, that I’m really not as great as people say I am? I feel nauseous again.
“Cameron?” Grace prods, and my eyes dart back to her, though I can still feel his on me.
“Yeah?”
“I asked if you wanted to fuck me.”
I bristle at how straightforward the question is and quite literally take a step backward. I bump into a guy dancing with someone I presume is his girlfriend before I mumble my apologies.
“I… I need the restroom,” I lie, giving Grace a forced smile and rushing into the entryway, then past it to the guestroom, where I know there’s an ensuite.
Once alone, I slam the bathroom door shut and splash cold water onto my face.
Cloudy gray eyes stare back at me, my lips trembling. The blond of my hair is darkening with sweat where it’s matted to my forehead.
I feel like a joke. A fraud.
If Dad were alive, would he have shaped me into a better man? One who wants to fuck hot girls and who doesn’t have a hard time deciding what to wear each morning when I only own four solid outfits?
No, probably not. I believe I’ve been defective since birth.
I just need to get through tonight. Then I can start work and continue to only spend time with the four friends I keep close.
I can go back to my regular scheduled programming of runs in the morning, the gym in the afternoon, and consistency. Normalcy.
And most importantly, I can go back to watching Atticus from a safe distance during the brief times he visits town. His proximity is driving me nuts.
It’s making me… curious.
With one final deep breath, I wipe my face, take a leak, and wash my hands. Everything is kind of blurry, and the world is shifting too quickly, but I’m still thinking mostly straight, so that’s good.
I’m sighing as I open the door of the ensuite, greeted by the dark guestroom lit up only by the bathroom light.
As I notice the figure sitting at the end of the queen-sized bed, I startle, smacking my head into the casing of the threshold.
“Fuck!” I shout, clutching the side of my head.
“You alright?” A cold chill moves through me at the sound of Atticus’s voice.
Did I summon him or something?
“Yeah,” I mumble, rubbing at the sore spot on my scalp before dropping my hand. “Sorry, it’s all yours.”
Gesturing toward the bathroom, I begin to walk toward the closed door of the guestroom. I didn’t close that, right?
“I don’t need it.” His low, confident tone makes me want to shiver. To hear it again. To learn how to swallow it and project it from within my own body.
“Oh.” For some reason, my feet stop moving. And now I’m standing in the center of the room, facing where he sits, staring dumbly.
Atticus has his feet planted firmly on the ground, his legs spread, his back straight, as his hands sit clasped in his lap. His expression is carefully blank as he watches me, the light of the bathroom making him glow.
Ethereal.
“That girl,” he says, “she’s your girlfriend.”
It’s not a question. And it’s also not correct.
“No,” I say, rubbing at the back of my neck anxiously. “Just a friend. Or sort of a friend? We know each other.”
Why I am trying so hard to explain myself, I don’t know.
Atticus hums quietly, his head tilting just slightly. “But she wants to be. " Your girlfriend, I mean.”
I want to throw my hands out in exasperation. What are these questions? And how would I know what Grace wants?
“I… I don’t know? She wants sex. Probably just sex.” My tone portrays my frustration, but I’m pretty positive I’m correct.
She just got dumped, and I doubt she wants a boyfriend already.
“And will you?” Atticus pushes.
“Will I what?” I’m confused, most likely staring at him like an idiot. But who can fault me? He’s asking all of these out-of-pocket, random questions!
And I’ve… I’ve never been alone with Atticus before. It’s overwhelming.
“Will you have sex with her?” he clarifies.
This time, I don’t startle at the straightforwardness. I stay frozen, my mouth gaping.
When it becomes clear he won’t be saying never mind or just kidding, I clear my throat. “Um, no. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” With that question, Atticus stands.
“Well, I—I’m not… I haven’t really considered it.”
But I have, and I’ve already decided I won’t be participating in that. Only it feels embarrassing to say this to Atticus, whom I want to think I’m manly and appealing.
“It appears to me that you have,” he offers, taking a step toward me. “While she was rubbing against you like a cat in heat, you looked quite against the idea.”
A soft, startled sound leaves me.
I didn’t know I was so transparent that he could read me so well. Atticus doesn’t appear to be the kind of man who cares enough about others to dig into their reactions like that.
Fuck, is he judging me? Questioning? Does he have an inkling of my… problem? The one that requires a lot of deflection, avoidance, and denial?
“I just… she’s not my type.” I’m flailing, doing my best to cover my tracks and make sense of my own reactions.
“And what is your type, Cameron?”
“Oh, god,” I mutter, my eyes darting to the bedroom door. I crave escape, especially when he’s speaking my name like this.
“Look at me,” Atticus demands, and as I do, I notice he’s taken two more steps toward me. One more move forward, and I could reach out and touch him.
Touch him… I kind of want to…
“Good,” he murmurs, a small smile quirking his lips. “Now answer me. What is your type?”
“Uh,” I start. I’m sweating, nervous, and completely out of my element. I want to go back to watching him from a safe fucking distance. “I guess… I’m unsure. Maybe someone smart? And good-looking?”
Why am I being honest?! And why does Atticus look so amused?
“Someone,” he repeats. “Not a girl. Someone.”
“Or a girl,” I interject, my voice far too high-pitched for my liking.
“No,” Atticus says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Not specifically a girl.”
What the hell is happening? What is he implying? There’s no way that he knows; that he can fucking smell it on me that I’m so confused that I hate myself.
“W-what are you…” I trail off as he takes another step toward me, daunting and beautiful as he looks at me.
His height and his wide shoulders make me feel small, which is insane, as I’m pretty built muscle-wise. I’m not used to feeling small.
“Whenever you look at me, you get nervous. Why is that? What are you thinking about, Cameron?”
“Nothing,” I whisper, practically shaking where I stand before him.
“You’re thinking of nothing? I find that hard to believe.”
As Atticus takes another step, entering my space, I stumble a step backward. This doesn’t discourage him; he takes another step.
“Please,” I practically beg. “I can’t… I’m unsure what is happening right now.”
Atticus grins, a full-blown grin. “Yes, you do. You’re smart. But just in case you’re too drunk, let me lay it out for you.”
Atticus takes one last step, his chest damn near touching mine, but this time I can’t seem to move away.
“Okay,” I breathe out.