Ugly Love: A Novel(36)

She always does this. I tell her she should be a lawyer, because she likes playing devil’s advocate so much. But I love it when she does it, so I always go along with it.

“Good point,” I tell her. “I do like kissing. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t like it. But there’s a difference between this and simply liking to kiss.”

She looks at me curiously. “What’s the difference?”

I lower my mouth to hers once more. “You,” I whisper. “I like kissing you.”

That answers her question, because she shuts up and brings her mouth back to mine.

I like that Rachel questions everything.

It makes me look at things in a different way.

I have always enjoyed kissing the girls I’ve kissed in the past but only because I was attracted to them. It didn’t really have anything to do with them in particular.

When I kissed all the other girls, I felt pleasure. That’s why people enjoy kissing, because it feels good.

But when you like to kiss someone because of who she is, the difference isn’t found in the pleasure.

The difference is found in the pain you feel when you’re not kissing her.

It doesn’t hurt when I’m not kissing any of the other girls I’ve kissed.

It only hurts when I’m not kissing Rachel.

Maybe this explains why falling in love is so damn painful.

I like kissing you, Rachel.





chapter fifteen


TATE


Miles: Are you busy?

Me: Always busy. What’s up?

Miles: I need your help. Won’t take long.

Me: Be there in five.

I should have given myself ten minutes rather than five, because I haven’t had a shower today. After a ten-hour shift last night, I’m sure I need one. If I knew he was home, a shower would have been my top priority, but I thought he wasn’t due back until tomorrow.

I pull my hair up into a loose bun and change from my pajama bottoms into a pair of jeans. It’s not quite noon yet, but I’m embarrassed to admit I was still in bed.

He yells for me to come in after I knock on his door, so I push it open. He’s standing on a chair next to one of the -living-room windows. He glances down at me, then nods his head toward a chair.

“Grab that chair and push it right there,” he says, pointing to a spot a few feet away from him. “I’m trying to measure these, but I’ve never bought curtains before. I don’t know if I’m supposed to measure the outside frame or the actual window itself.”

Well, I’ll be damned. He’s buying curtains.

I scoot the chair to the other side of the window and climb up onto it. He hands me one end of the measuring tape and begins to pull.

“It all depends on what kind of curtains you want, so I’d get measurements for both,” I suggest.

He’s dressed casually again in a pair of jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Somehow the dark blue in his shirt make his eyes look less blue. It makes them look clear. See-through, almost, but I know that’s impossible. His eyes are anything but see-through with that wall he keeps up behind them.

He enters the measurement into his phone, and then we take a second measurement. Once he’s got both entered into his phone, we step down and push the chairs back under the table.

“What about a rug?” he asks, staring at the floor beneath the table. “You think I should get a rug?”

I shrug. “Depends on what you like.”

He nods his head slowly, still staring down at the bare floor.

“I don’t know what I like anymore,” he says quietly. He tosses the tape measure onto the couch and looks at me. “You want to come?”

I refrain from immediately nodding. “Where to?”

He brushes his hair off his forehead and reaches for his jacket tossed over the back of his couch. “Wherever people buy curtains.”

I should say no. Picking out curtains is something couples do. Picking out curtains is something friends do. Picking out curtains is not something Miles and Tate should do if they want to stick to their rules, but I absolutely, positively, most definitely don’t want to do anything else.

I shrug to make my answer appear much more casual than it is. “Sure. Let me lock my door.”

???

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask him once we’re on the elevator. I’m trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but I can’t deny the desire I have for him to reach out and touch me. A kiss, a hug . . . anything. We’re standing on opposite sides of the elevator, though. We haven’t touched since the night we first had sex. We haven’t even spoken or texted since then, either.

“Black?” he says, unsure of his own answer. “I like black.”

I shake my head. “You can’t decorate with black curtains. You need color. Maybe something close to black but not black.”

“Navy?” he asks. I notice his eyes aren’t focused on mine anymore. His eyes are scrolling slowly from my neck all the way down to my feet. Everywhere his eyes focus, I can feel it.

“Navy might work,” I say quietly. I’m pretty sure this conversation is only taking place for the sake of having conversation. I can see by the way he’s looking at me that neither of us is thinking about colors or curtains or rugs right now.