Scared of Beautiful (Scared #1)(40)
“Hey…stranger,” I say breathlessly when I finally catch up to her. I nearly slipped up and used the word beautiful. She registers me with a startled look, mixed with something else. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she knew full well we’d be running into each other.
“Hey!” Her greeting is enthusiastic, her voice so melodic that I wish that I could replay the words over and over. Maia really is, and probably will always be, my breath of fresh air. I won’t tell her that, though.
“Come here often?” I tease, opting to come off as carefree smartass. Truthfully, it’s all I got, aside from pleading on one knee.
Her eyes dance mischievously. “Not recently, no…” We stand for a few seconds, which feel like a half-century, in an awkward silence.
“I hoped we’d run into each other,” I say nervously. And then, f-uck it! She can only say no, right? “Maybe we could grab a coffee at some point, you know as friends? Hang out maybe?” It comes out meek, childlike.
“I have some time now,” she answers, smiling platonically.
Damn it! “I need a shower,” I say, gesturing towards my sweat-covered body. “I’ll meet you at the Clever Bean?”
“Sure,” she answers clinically. Not a drop of intimacy in her tone. The sexy Maia that I have missed all these weeks seems to have all but disappeared.
Chapter 21
Maia
If you asked me whether I knew where Jackson was going to be on that Wednesday afternoon, I would have lied and happily told you that I had no idea. The truth is that I did know. I knew that he played basketball every Wednesday and Saturday at the college courts, and that he spent an unusually large amount of time in the library these days. He wants to be friends? That’s a novel idea! Especially since the very thought of being close to Jackson causes my stomach to erupt in beautiful butterflies. Nonetheless, we can do this, we both can.
Surprisingly, he’s already at the Bean by the time I get there. “Hi,” I say casually, trying to ignore how hot Jackson looks freshly showered, his arm swung casually over the back of the chaise lounge where he’s seated. I immediately regret my decision to be in such close proximity to him. We, him, us, all of this is far from over, and way too raw to revisit so soon. We both know that, but here we are, irrespective of that fact.
I perch myself awkwardly across from him, hoping against all hope that something in my demeanor, or eyes, or voice doesn’t betray me, in this little game that we’re trying to play. That I can hide behind this fa?ade well enough to get through the next few hours. Jackson offers me a sweet, platonic smile that both warms my heart and breaks it simultaneously. All of a sudden, in the list of epically bad ideas I’ve come up with in my lifetime, this seems like it might just be number one. With a bullet. Despite my stoic expression, my mind reverts back to the moments I spent with my arms...and legs wrapped around Jackson. A searing heat courses through my body, flushing my cheeks.
“Hey!” The words that left my mouth were supposed to be casual, supposed to ooze with nonchalance and, well, just ease. Except they don’t. The single, solitary word shoots out of my upper orifice like it was synthetically sped up, and combined with the awkward grin on my face, it’s just an enormous fail on my part. The only way I’m getting through this, I decide, is with indifference. It’s going to be one long ass afternoon.
I didn’t, however, take into account that when I was trying to be an elusive ice queen, the fact that I am and probably always will be annoyingly comfortable in Jackson’s company. After stuffing our faces, we order drinks and relax into the evening, which as it turns out, flies by with ease. The more scotch I drink, the more attractive Jackson becomes and my eyes revert more than once to the bulge in his jeans. If he notices, he doesn’t mention a thing, but does casually adjust his pants when I lean forward to grab my phone from my bag, or to reapply my lip-gloss. I know I’m teasing, deliberately bending forward to flash my black lace bra. I want him to want me. But at the same time, I told him not to. More than once in the evening I’m distracted by the head versus heart versus vagina dilemma I have going on.
“This is nice,” Jackson says quietly during our third round of drinks.
“What?” I ask curiously.
“Having drinks, no pressure. I guess we can be friends after all. Who knew?” He gives me a cocky sideways grin.
“Easy huh?” I say with mock offense.
“Not even missing me a little?” I try to sound nonchalant, but the sadness makes its way past my smile.
“Every day,” he says looking down with sudden interest at the label on his beer bottle. “If being friends is the only way to see you, then it’s what I gladly take.”
The conversation stalls right then, because truthfully, there’s nothing either of us can say. We’re both lying and we know it. This awkwardness, this conversation, will always be the elephant in the room for us.
I knock back the contents of my glass and order another. I should stop drinking. That’s what I should do. We should say goodnight and exit stage left to our respective lonely beds right f-ucking now. But neither of us go. Neither of us can. The Clever Bean around us is alive with the sounds of glasses clinking and drunken merriment. I knock back the next glass as it lands in my hand.
“I should go,” I say with hesitation before grabbing my bag.