Ugly Love(22)

He smiles, soaking me up from head to toe with his eyes like a sponge. “You really love orange juice,” he says, amused.
I look down at my glass, then back up to him, and shrug. He takes a step toward me and motions for the glass. I hand it to him, and he brings it to his lips, takes a slow sip, and hands it back to me. All these movements are completed without his ever breaking eye contact with me.
Well, I definitely love orange juice now.
“I love it, too,” he says, even though I never answered him.
I set the glass down beside me, grip the edges of the counter, and push myself up until I’m seated on it. I pretend he isn’t invading my entire being, but he’s still everywhere. Filling the kitchen.
The entire house.
It’s way too quiet. I decide to make the first move.
“Has it really been six years since you’ve had a girlfriend?”
He nods without hesitation, and I’m both shocked and extremely pleased by that answer. I’m not sure why I like it. I guess it’s just so much better than what I was imagining his life was like.
“Wow. Have you at least . . .” I don’t know how to finish this sentence.
“Had sex?” he interjects.
I’m glad the only light on is the one over the kitchen stove, because I’m absolutely blushing right now.
“Not everyone wants the same things out of life,” he says. His voice is soft, like a down comforter. I want to roll around in it, wrap myself up in that voice.
“Everyone wants love,” I say. “Or at least sex. It’s human nature.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
He folds his arms across his chest. His feet cross at the ankles. I’ve noticed this is his form of personal armor. He’s putting up his invisible shield again, guarding himself from giving too much away.
“Most people can’t have one without the other,” he says. “So I find it easier to just give up both.” He’s studying me, gauging my reaction to his words. I do my best not to give him one.
“So which of the two do you not want, Miles?” My voice is embarrassingly weak. “Love or sex?”
His eyes remain the same, but his mouth changes. His lips curl up into a barely there smile. “I think you already know the answer to that, Tate.”
Wow.
I blow out a controlled breath, not even caring if he knows those words affected me like they did. The way he says my name makes me feel just as flustered as his kiss did. I cross my legs at the knees, hoping he doesn’t notice it’s my own personal armor.
His eyes drop to my legs, and I watch him softly inhale.
Six years. Unbelievable.
I look down at my legs, too. I want to ask him another question, but I can’t look at him when I ask it. “How long has it been since you kissed a girl?”
“Eight hours,” he replies without hesitation. I raise my eyes to his, and he grins, because he knows what I’m asking him. “The same,” he utters quietly. “Six years.”
I don’t know what happens to me, but something changes. Something melts. Something hard or cold or covered in my own personal armor is turning to liquid now that I’m realizing what that kiss really meant. I feel like I’m nothing but liquid, and liquid doesn’t do a good job of standing or walking away, so I don’t move.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, disbelievingly.
I think he’s the one blushing now.
I’m so confused. I don’t understand how I’ve pegged him so wrong or how what he’s saying is even possible. He’s good-looking. He has a great job. He definitely knows how to kiss, so why hasn’t he been doing it?
“What’s your deal, then?” I ask him. “You have STDs?” It’s the nurse in me. I have no medical filter.
He laughs. “Pretty damn clean,” he says. He still doesn’t explain himself, though.
“If it’s been six years since you kissed a girl, then why did you kiss me? I was under the impression you didn’t even really like me. You’re really hard to read.”
He doesn’t ask me why I’m under the impression that he doesn’t like me.
I think if it’s obvious to me that he’s different when he’s around me, it’s been intentional on his part.
“It’s not that I don’t like you, Tate.” He sighs heavily and runs his hands through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. “I just don’t want to like you. I don’t want to like anyone. I don’t want to date anyone. I don’t want to love anyone. I just . . .” He folds his arms back across his chest and looks down at the floor.
“You just what?” I ask, urging him to finish that sentence. His eyes slowly lift back to mine, and it takes all I have to stay seated on this counter with the way he’s looking at me right now—like I’m Thanksgiving dinner.
“I’m attracted to you, Tate,” he says, his voice low. “I want you, but I want you without any of that other stuff.”
I have no thoughts left.
Brain = Liquid.
Heart = Butter.
I can still sigh, though, so I do.
I wait until I can think again. Then I think a lot.
He just admitted that he wants to have sex with me; he just doesn’t want it to lead to anything. I don’t know why this flatters me. It should make me want to punch him, but the fact that he chose to kiss me after not having kissed anyone for six straight years makes this new confession seem like I just won a Pulitzer.
We’re staring at each other again, and he looks a little bit nervous. I’m sure he’s wondering if he just pissed me off. I don’t want him to think that, because, honestly, I want to yell “I won!” at the top of my lungs.