I rolled my eyes, not understanding why he felt the need to put the ridiculous front on. Didn’t he know it was those moments of male vulnerability that the opposite sex went wild for?
“For you my friend, double,” I said, eyeing the flashy watch on his left wrist.
“That was a gift,” he said, his tone more excusing than explaining.
“Some gift,” I replied, not wanting clarification on who he’d received it from, although my imagination filled in the blanks just fine.
“It’s jam packed in there.” I pointed with my eyes to the auditorium behind me, while another eruption broke up. The particle board counter started vibrating. “Good luck finding a seat.”
“It’s alright. Someone saved me one,” he said, looking behind my shoulder.
As if his words spoken to me were some kind of alert, one of the cheerleaders with an orange ribbon curling from her auburn ponytail raised her hand at him and waved with such zeal she could have been hailing a cab in downtown Chicago in the middle of winter. She pointed at a front row seat and mouthed, “Yours” to him.
He raised his index finger at her and looked back at me. “Will you join me when you’re through here?”
The earnestness in his voice tempted me, right before I remembered he’d been invited here by another woman and was currently asking another woman (that woman being me) to join him as well. I wasn’t about to feed into his womanizer tendencies.
“Looks like there’s only room for one.” I kept my voice level, keeping any sign of jealousy at bay.
He leaned over the counter. “You could sit on my lap.”
“I could if I wanted to.” I backed away from him until my back hit the counter behind me. “Besides, little Miss Ribbons might beat me bloody with her pom-poms if I do.”
His forehead lined and his eyes said, explain.
“She likes you,” I said in a tone one would tell a kindergartener the world was round.
He shrugged. “I don’t like her.”
I contained a smile. “Why? What’s not to like?” She looked like a swimsuit model, with a few more freckles and a slightly more innocent face.
He grabbed the ledge of the booth, his knuckles blanching white, while he feigned focus on the crowd filling up the hall. “I like someone else.”
“That was quick,” I said, trying not to vocalize my disappointment. “You’ve been here a whole week now. Who? The cheerleader to her left or right, or maybe long legs Kirkpatick.” I was jealous, and while I’d heard the emotion associated with the color green, I felt and saw nothing but red.
“Nope, not my type,” he answered simply.
“Just what is your type?” I didn’t really want to know if girls—who were gorgeous in my book—didn’t clear his bar.
He didn’t let a second fill in the space between us before answering. “You.”
The look on his face was unfamiliar, like a far-off land, something I wanted to know, but was too scared of the unknown to journey into.
A slow smile crept over his lips, and I let a few heartbeats pass. Heartbeats where my mind wandered to what those lips would feel like against mine, what they would taste like, how his hair would feel knitted between my fingers, what it would feel like to have his gaze find me in the middle of dozens of other people. His smile pulled tighter, acknowledging the dreaminess playing out on my expression.
I snapped back to reality, feeling its whiplash. “Stop it,” I whispered, tucking my arms around my stomach. “Stop playing with me. It’s cruel.”
His smile fell and he looked panicked, as if realizing I was aware of the games he was playing. “I’m not—”
“Just leave,” I said, meaning to shout, but my vocal chords choked around the words.
I chanced a look up, and he was a pillar of stone still before me. “Leave!” This time I harnessed the volume I’d been meaning.
For the first time, he listened to me.
Since he’d stormed off, I’d remained in the booth . . . I’d hid in the booth. With his confounding presence removed, I finally had a chance to think clearly and knew I’d behaved like a crazy person. Although I’d called him the twelve-year-old, my own behavior was more in accordance with pre-pubescence. He hadn’t said one thing insulting or humiliating—perhaps frustratingly evasive—but it had been my interpretation of what his words meant that had put me in defense mode. I wouldn’t necessarily consider myself confidence bankrupt, but somewhere in between being terrorized by the pretty girls and ignored by the beautiful boys, I’d steeled myself against any future attacks. I was an impenetrable fortress, but it came at a high cost. Lack of meaningful friendships and dates on the weekend to name a few.
I wanted to retreat to the confines of my dorm, at least the coward in me did, but this other part of me—the dominant one I wasn’t familiar with—told me I had to go to him and apologize. It was telling me with such persuasion, I doubted it would have allowed me to take a step in the opposite direction.
I closed the ticket window, trying not to rehearse my apology. From experience, I knew my rehearsed speeches sounded like I was reading from a teleprompter moving at a snail’s pace.
I yanked out my ponytail holder and picked through my hair with my fingers, attempting to inject some volume into hair that was, by definition, flat. A smear of chapstick and a pinching of the cheeks completed my ad-hoc beautification.