Space (Laws of Physics #2)(54)

But before I made it fully to the door, she darted forward. “Since I’ve already said too much, and you’re not uncomfortable, can I ask for one more thing? And if it makes you feel uncomfortable, then—”

“Mona.” I stopped, clearing my throat, my attention tracing the lines of her body in the low light. I needed to leave. Now. “Nothing you say, or ask, will make me feel uncomfortable. Ever.”

“But you don’t want me to talk.” She was fidgety, her stare searching.

“Only because I realize you’re drunk, and this isn’t you.”

“This is me.” Pressing her lips together, her forehead wrinkled, like she was suddenly in deep thought. “Or, rather, a part of me I don’t like.”

That struck me, and before I could stop myself, I asked, “Why?”

“You mean, why don’t I like the part of myself that vocalized my problems and angst, and then vomited them all over the person I’ve victimized? You know, I think it’s probably because it makes me a total—”

“You didn’t victimize me.”

“I did. And if you don’t think I did, then I should make you a diagram and write you a proof that proves it. I could, you know.”

I didn’t want to smile at her threat, but I couldn’t help myself. “You’re overthinking this.”

“Yeah, probably. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Why don’t you hate me? After everything I’ve done, you should hate me. I hate that you don’t hate me.”

Swallowing several versions of the truth, I settled on, “You’re very difficult to hate.”

“But my actions demand it.” She hit the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. “If the world knew what I did to you, if social media caught wind of it, I’d be crucified and they’d be right. And then they’d call you weak for not hating me and wanting me crucified.”

“Maybe that’s more telling of the problem with social media than with you.”

“What? How does that make any sense?”

“Love doesn’t have to make sense,” I said, thoughtlessly, stupidly, foolishly.

Dammit.

She let out a little breath, like I’d surprised her, and then she swayed. Instinctively, I reached for her, holding her steady. Mona’s eyes grew hazier as her gaze moved between mine.

I couldn’t think. I worked to shut down the part of myself that was anticipating the morning, and the new confrontation, and everything that—hopefully honesty—would come after. She was drunk. I had questions and I had a list of demands, but those would have to wait, when her confessions weren’t tainted by intoxication.

And then her attention dropped to my lips, and she made no attempt to disguise what she was thinking, what she wanted.

Oh hell no.

I wasn’t doing this now. Nope. Is that what this was about?

I let her go. I stepped away and crossed my arms, clearing my throat of the choking anger.

Fuck her.

I should have fucking known better. I should’ve fucking known!

She wanted me, that much was painfully clear. What had she said earlier? I want to lick you like an ice cream and eat the fuck out of your cookie cone. . .

Fine. Alright. Okay. I got it. I understood what was going on here. If she’d proposed sex while sober, before pretending to have feelings for me, at least it would’ve been honest. But this? Telling me she loved me, she still loved me, and then this? Why had I expected more?

Just leave the room.

I didn’t. Like a fool, I didn’t.

“You wanted something?” I asked, working to keep my voice free of bitterness. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what she would ask for. But perversely, I needed to hear her say it. This would be my escape hatch from hope. This would be all the proof I needed.

“I did?” Her gaze was still on my mouth, and she’d leaned forward as I stepped away.

I did not reach out to steady her this time. “You did. You said you wanted to ask for one more thing?”

She blinked, her eyes completely losing focus for a second. She frowned her cute frown and my temper spiked. After tonight, I never wanted to see her again.

“Oh, yes!” She tried to snap, failed, and waved an index finger through the air. “I remember.”

“What is it?”

“I’m only asking you this because you’ve claimed it’s impossible for me to make you feel uncomfortable at present, and when I’m drunk, I’m selfish and have no filter.”

“Mona, what is it?”

“Can I listen to your heart?”

I started, blinked, confused. “What?”

“Can I listen to your heartbeat? Obviously, it’s fine to say no. It’s incredibly fine. In fact, I expect you to say no. But, since I’ve already confessed to plasma levels of being hot for you, and still in love with you, I figured I might as well make it a trifecta of selfishness and mortification—a trifecta squared? An exponential trifecta? A tripod of shame? I don’t know, fill in the blank—and just ask for what I really want.”

What? “You want to . . . listen to my heartbeat? That’s what you want?”

“I do.” She nodded, her eyes earnest and eager. “I want to lie next to you.” She redirected her focus to the left side of my chest, and she swallowed, gazing at the spot with naked longing. “I want to place my ear right there.” Mona lifted her hand and stopped just short of touching me, her breath coming faster, making her voice softer. “And I want to listen to your heart. I want it more than I want to breathe, if I’m being honest. Which I am being honest, as we’ve established.”