Maybe Not (Maybe #1.5)(25)

“She’s not coming,” I say, standing up. “She has plans.”

Bridgette turns away, giving her attention to the purse she just slung over her shoulder. I walk up to her and wrap my arms around her from behind. “I’m kidding,” I whisper in her ear. “I didn’t invite anyone else to run errands with me today but you.”

Bridgette’s hand meets my forehead, and she pushes me away from her. “I’ll stay here if you expect today to be like this.”

I take a step back. “Like what?”

She points at me. “You. Touching me. Kissing me. PDA. Gross.” She walks to the front door and I clutch my hand to my heart and wince at Sydney.

“Good luck,” she mouths as I make my way to the door.

Once we’re in my car and it’s moving away from the apartment, Bridgette finally speaks. “So where are we going first? I need to go to Walgreens before we come back.”

“First, we go to my sister’s house, then we go to the bank, then we go to Walgreens, then we go eat lunch, then we go home.”

Her hand flies up and she holds up a finger. “What did you just say?”

I repeat myself. “First we go to my sister’s house, then we go to . . .”

“Why in the hell are you taking me to your sister’s house? I don’t want to meet your sister, Warren. We aren’t that kind of couple.”

I roll my eyes and grab the hand she’s holding up in protest. “I’m not bringing you as my girlfriend. You can stay in the damn car for all I care. I just need to drop off a package at her house.”

This actually eases her apprehension. She relaxes into the seat and flips her hand over so that I can slide my fingers through hers. I look down at our hands and seeing them linked together on the seat between us feels like I just went further with her than the night we first had sex.

She would have never let me hold her hand back then. Hell, she would have never let me hold her hand last month. But we’re holding hands now.

Maybe I should ask her out on a date.

She pulls her hand from mine and I immediately glance up at her. She’s staring straight at me. “You were smiling too much,” she says.

What?

I reach over and grab her hand again and pull it back to me. “I was smiling because I like holding your hand.”

She yanks her hand back. “I know. That’s why I don’t want you to hold it.”

Goddamit. She’s not winning this one.

I reach across the seat again, swerving the car in the process. She tries to shove her hand beneath her legs so that I can’t grasp it, so I pull at her wrist instead. I release the steering wheel and reach across with both hands now, steering with my knee. “Give me your hand,” I say through clenched teeth. “I want to hold your damn hand.” I have to grab the wheel to steer us back into our lane. Once we’re no longer in danger of crashing, I slam on the brakes as I pull over to the side of the road. I throw the car in park and lock the doors so she can’t run. I know how she works.

I lean across the seat and pry her hand away from being tucked against her chest. I grab her wrist with both hands and I pull her toward me. She’s still trying to fight me by pulling her hand away, so I release her and look her directly in the eye. “Give. Me. Your. Hand.”

I’m not sure if I just scared her a little, but she relaxes and allows me to grab her wrist. I put her wrist in my left hand and I hold up my right hand in front of hers. “Spread your fingers.”

She makes a fist instead.

I pry open her fist, then force our fingers to intertwine. I hate that she’s being so resistant. She’s pissing me the hell off. All I want to do is hold her damn hand and she’s making such a big deal out of it. We’re doing everything backward in this relationship. Couples are supposed to start out holding hands and going on dates. Not us. We start out fighting, end up screwing, yet we apparently haven’t even made it to the point where we can hold hands. If things continue at this rate, we’ll probably move in together before we even go on our first date.

I squeeze her hand until I know she can’t pull away from me. I scoot back to my seat and I put the car in drive with my left hand and then ease back onto the road.

We drive the next several miles in silence, and she occasionally tries to ease her hand from mine, but each time she does it I squeeze a little tighter and get even more agitated with her. She’s gonna hold my damn hand whether she likes it or not.

We hit a red light and the lack of movement outside the car and the lack of conversation inside the car shifts the mood tremendously, thickening the air with tension and . . . laughter?

She’s laughing at me.

Figures.

I slowly tilt my head in her direction, giving her a sidelong glance. She’s covering her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh, but she is. She’s laughing so hard that her body is shaking.

I have no idea what she finds so funny, but I’m not laughing with her. And as much as I want to turn away and punch the steering wheel, I can’t stop watching her. I watch the tears form at the corners of her eyes, and I watch her chest heave when she attempts to catch her breath. I watch her lick her lips as she tries to stop herself from smiling so much. I watch her run her free hand through her hair as she sighs, coming down from her fit of laughter.

She finally looks at me. She’s no longer laughing, but the residue is still there. The smile is still on her mouth and her cheeks are still a shade pinker than normal, and her mascara is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, keeping her focus on me. “You’re insane, Warren.” She laughs again, but only for a second. The fact that I’m not smiling is making her uncomfortable.