If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(53)

And what did he do?

He tapped back a double exclamation point and hasn’t said a word since. Damn tapbacks: where in-depth text conversations go to die.

So why is Mr. Tapback and Go Radio Silent here?

Curious, I unlock the door, then open it. “Sebastian?”

His eyes snap open as he jolts, then pushes off the wall. Clearing his throat, he rakes a hand through his hair, not the way he does when he wants to fix it, but in the way I’ve already learned means he’s uneasy. “Hey, Ziggy.”

I stare at him, as butterflies burst to life in my stomach and flutter right through my limbs. My fingertips tickle. My toes curl.

He’s a little rumpled—faded blue jeans that look old and loved hugging his powerful hockey player legs, even leaned up from his obvious weight loss. His pale gray-green T-shirt—the one that I love, the one that makes his eyes jump—is wrinkled and drapes too loosely on his shoulders. There’s so much ink to look at, more than I’ve ever seen, weaving up his arms and biceps, peeking out at his collarbones.

I’m blushing. I have to be, knowing how hot my cheeks feel. Clearing my throat, I hold open my door. “Do you, uh…want to come in?”

He seems to hesitate, halfway between the wall and my door. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

“Sure. Of course. Yes.” I lean behind the door and hide for a second as I open it wide for him, grimacing at myself. Could I be more awkward?

Stepping into my apartment, Sebastian moves past me, out of the way, so I can close the door. He stands almost unnaturally still, like a cat ready to bolt, tension coiling his body as he shoves his hands into his pockets. There’s nothing of the nonchalant, sardonic man who breezed into my place just a few weeks ago, ripped up my jeans into shorts, and busted me about my whole wardrobe being athleticwear.

“What’s wrong, Sebastian?”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but often, that’s how things go with me. I’m honest to a fault, not just in what I share but what I ask. Frankie says it’s damn refreshing, but then again, she’s autistic, too—she appreciates my candor. Not everyone does, though. I’ve learned that the hard way.

Slowly, Sebastian glances my way, his gaze traveling my face up to my hair. I am suddenly reminded my wet hair is twisted into my favorite dragon-print towel turban. My hands reflexively go there as Sebastian stares at it, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Dragons, huh?”

I clear my throat, letting my hands fall. “They’re my favorite reptile.”

His smile deepens, and my heart kicks in my chest. “I didn’t know imaginary creatures were fair game for favorites.”

“Who says they’re imaginary?”

He presses his tongue into his cheek. “Science?”

“There’s no science disproving the existence of dragons.”

“Except the fact that we’ve never seen one.”

“Just because we haven’t seen something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” I fold my arms across my chest and prop a foot on the wall as I rest against it. “Some of the most beautiful discoveries have come from the persistent pursuit of a possibility most people were too ready to give up on.”

Sebastian leans his hip into my kitchen counter, eyes dancing over my face, up to the towel turban again. “Fair enough.”

“So.” I push off the wall and brush past him into my kitchen, before opening my glasses cabinet. “Want a drink? You know, water or something? It’s hot as heck out there. I bet you’re thirsty. Did you walk?”

He turns, watching me, then shakes his head. “No, I’m out of the boot. I drove. And no, thank you. I’m okay.”

I lower my hand from where it’s been heading toward the cabinet. “Right. Sure.”

“I…brought the roller rink clothes you left at my place.” He glances over his shoulder to my duffel bag. “Rainbow earrings, black romper, high-tops, and fuzzy ankle socks. That was everything, right?”

“Yeah, it was. Thanks.”

Sebastian stares at me, shifting his weight, leaning harder into my counter. Finally he says, “I’m sorry I’ve dropped off the radar a lot the past week.”

My heart flip-flops. I wasn’t the only one who noticed, then, who felt there was a significance to our silence. That shouldn’t matter to me. But it definitely does.

“Oh.” I shrug, turning and leaning against the counter too, stretching out my legs. “That’s fine. I mean, you know. Friends do that.”

He stares down at his hands, spinning one of his rings. “Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe some do. I’m no friend expert. But…I don’t think that’s the kind of friend I want to be to you.”

I bite my lip. “It’s really okay, Sebastian—”

“Don’t do that,” he says, peering up at me. “Don’t go easy on me. You never have before. You’re different. We’re different. Just like you told me.”

At the mention of what I said last weekend, the memory of our kisses feels so tangible between us, it’s like for a moment it’s a third person in the room, bursting through, all color and heat and sparkle. But then I remind myself what he said afterward, even though he said our kisses were good, even though his enthusiastic response seemed to indicate he enjoyed himself as much as I did: You asked me to be your friend, Ziggy, and I’m hardly worthy of that, but I’d like to be. Don’t ask more of me, please.