Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(10)
“You can’t go on doing this, querida,” he said, shoving me roughly away from him so he could look down into my eyes. But he still held on to my shoulders, so I couldn’t get away. Not that I wanted to. “I’ve already lost everyone I’ve ever loved. I can’t lose you, too.”
“Jesse, you’re not going to lose me. I had the situation totally under control.” Sort of. “But I have to say that after so many years of you keeping your feelings for me hidden out of propriety, it’s really nice to hear you say all those things. Plus, it’s emotionally healthy that you’re letting them out in this way. Keep unburdening yourself.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “What is it exactly, that you find so irresistible about me? Is it my magnetic personality? Or my emerald green eyes? Or maybe it’s just my hot bod?” I felt something against my torso. “Oh, I’m getting the impression that it’s my hot bod.”
He thrust me away from him again, this time looking disgusted. “This is nothing to joke about, Susannah. If that boy had murder on his mind when you left him, he may not stop at killing only his rival for his sweetheart’s affections. You may also be on his list.”
I wasn’t listening anymore, however. Well, not really. I’m on the kill list of so many spooks, the whole thing has really gotten old.
“Jesse,” I said, my gaze fastened on the front of his jeans. “Is it my imagination, or are you overly glad to see me?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Susannah. If this boy wants to kill you—-or even if he only wants to kill this other boy, Zack—-we should go now, and try to stop him.”
“Yeah, in a minute. Jesse, what’s in your pocket?”
His hand went instinctively to the hard lump I’d noticed—-and been mistaking for something else all night. His expression turned unreadable—-as it always did when the subject changed to something he didn’t want to discuss, like what being dead had been like, or his predilection for the musical stylings of Nicki Minaj—-and he dropped his hand away.
“It’s nothing. We need to go. Get your coat.”
“Jesse, that is not nothing. I thought you were glad to see me, but I think I was sadly mistaken. Is that a gun in your pocket?”
He threw me a sour glance. “No, Susannah, I do not have a gun in my pocket. Doctors swear an oath to protect human life, not take it.” Then his brown--eyed gaze grew hard. “Well, unless it’s a human who’s already dead, and is trying to harm my girlfriend. Now can we go?”
“No, we cannot.” I took a step forward.
Jesse’s pretty fast, what with the whole having--walked--in--the--valley--of--the--shadow--of--death thing.
But with all the laps I swim in the campus pool (and paranormal butts I have to kick), I’m faster. I had one finger through a belt loop of his jeans (to hold him still) and another down his pocket more quickly than he could say, “Good morning, ma’am” (a frustrating habit of his of which I’ve tried to cure him. No one wants to be called ma’am. The first time he said it to my mom, I thought she was going to have a coronary).
“Susannah,” he cried, struggling against me—-or more like against himself. I don’t think he could decide whether he was more outraged or delighted to find my hand down his pants pocket.
But then when I cried, “Aha! Got it!” and withdrew the treasure I’d discovered from the depths of his jeans, he grew very still. I don’t know which one of us was more mortified when I saw what it was.
Because of course it wasn’t a gun.
It was a ring box.
Seis
JESSE WAS THE first to recover himself.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied, Miss Simon,” he said, and nimbly snatched the box from my hand, then stuffed it back into his pocket.
I was too emotional to say anything. I was experiencing many “feels” as the kids on Tumblr—-my computer--savvy friend CeeCee has told me about it—-often say. I felt panic and joy and shame over my behavior, but also exultant over the fact that the ring box wasn’t large enough to have caused all the hardness I’d felt against me while we’d been making out earlier. So I’d been right: he had been happy to see me.
“But Jesse,” I said, when I finally found my voice. “I thought we’d agreed we were going to wait until we were both finished with our education, and then get married, because of your nineteenth--century macho man bullshit idea that you have to support me. Which of course is ridiculous since I fully intend to support myself. And you.”
“Yes,” he said, with forced patience. He hated it when I brought up the part about how I was going to support him, which is why I brought it up as often as possible. It’s important to keep your romantic partner on their toes. “But we could still get engaged.”
“Engaged?” My voice broke on the word. “Jesse, no one our age gets engaged. They live together first, to see how things are going to work out, then—-”
“We already did that, Susannah,” he reminded me matter--of--factly. “And I think you’ll agree that things ‘worked out’ beneficially for both of us.”
“Yes, but . . .” I struggled to put into words what I was feeling. The difficulty was that I didn’t know what I was feeling.