Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(57)

“I’m not telling you not to have feelings. I’d never tell you what to do in your own head.”

He looks up—maybe because of what I said, or maybe because of how I accidentally said it, like trying to control him would be a capital crime. Which it would, for so many reasons, but if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s showing my own feelings, and he teases them out of me without even trying.

Yet another reason not to kiss him again, as if I needed more.

“Celine.” He makes my name sound like a sigh. Like a very gentle waterfall. “You said earlier that I could do anything.”

“Books,” I remind him desperately. “I was talking about books. Writing. Jobs. Dreams.”

“Is work the only thing people are supposed to dream about? I thought fantasies were meant to be fun.”

There’s a second of teetering uncertainty where the world wobbles or shimmers or shifts and I’m not quite sure if I’m protecting myself or committing serious sabotage. Then everything slams back into place and logic prevails: everything ends. I don’t want to have him if he’s going to be gone. So I won’t take him at all.

There. Logic. Who can argue with that?

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

His jaw shifts. This is his stubborn face. “I still like you. I’m not gonna stop.”

I don’t believe you.

He falters. “Are you asking me to stop?”

Say yes. Tell him not to look at you like that. Tell him not to say your name so sweetly. Tell him not to bump your shoulders together when you get frappes or touch your knees together in Philosophy. Tell him—

“I can’t tell you what to do,” is all I say, because I am pathetic and awful.

He chews on his lower lip, brows drawn together, eyes pinned to mine. “Did we fuck everything up today?”

No, no, no. If we did, it means no more Brad at all, ever, and I can’t cope with that. “We’re still friends. Always, okay? Always. Say it.” I should be embarrassed, forcing someone to say something like that, but I’m more concerned with getting the words out of his mouth. As if they’re a magic spell that sets us in stone. Friends 4 eva. Maybe I’ll make him a bracelet.

“Cel,” he laughs, though it’s more exhausted than amused. “Okay. Always. Okay?”

“Okay. Good.”

“Aw. I like it when you’re bossy.” But there’s caution behind his confidence.

I hesitate. “Are you flirting with me?”

“You never asked me to stop.”

No. And I’m the worst friend in the world because I still don’t.





CHAPTER TWELVE





BRAD


Celine told me I could do anything. She also told me we can’t be together. Here, then, are my options:

           Celine never lies. I can do anything. One day, I’ll write something worth reading.



      Celine is a liar. We can be together. We just haven’t been friends again long enough for her to trust me yet.





Turns out both things can’t be true. So I spend the last two weeks of term being Celine’s friend, because I’ll never stop again, and flirting with her, because she doesn’t seem to hate it. I also Google Can I write a book? because for the first time I’m seriously considering the question and Google is the smartest person in my life. When the suggested search brings up How do you write a book, which is an even better question, I feel like I’ve been struck by genius lightning.

Unfortunately, the various tips I find online do not help me finish my epic sci-fi novel in one week, so yet again, here I sit on Failure Avenue. I wonder what else I’ve messed up lately.

“Brad.” Celine’s hand closes around my elbow. She jerks me to a stop 0.2 inches away from a gleaming pillar of glass. It’s Christmas break, and we’re back at the Sherwood, that fancy hotel where we first heard about the BEP, ready to meet the Katharine Breakspeare and receive our scores so far. Apparently, I zoned out as we made our way through the ornate lobby.

To my left, a buttoned-up Sherwood employee gives me a dirty look from the polished reception desk. I try not to breathe too hard on their pristine glass as I pull away.

“Thanks. Sorry.”

Celine’s expression is concerned. Her hand is still on my elbow and I’m really enjoying it, although it would be better if I wasn’t feeling this contact through a thick shirt and a winter coat. Screw you, December.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. Just thinking.” About my tragically doomed creative future. Nothing major.

“Okay.” She starts to pull her hand away.

I put mine on top of it. “Actually, I’m still feeling unsteady on my feet. You should keep that there.”

“Brad.” Her lips twitch at one corner.

“Or we could hold hands. That would be nice. For my balance, I mean.”

“Brad.” Her lips twitch some more. Her eyes are dancing. I bet if I felt her cheek, she would be hot. “You’re not allowed to flirt with me while Katharine Breakspeare’s in the building.”

I’m tired and nervous, so my brain suggests all kinds of terrible reasons for that, but I try to ignore it and question the source. “Why not?”