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The guy I’m secretly in love with—the guy who looks at me like I’m his kid sister.
Kit races over to me and yanks me up by the arms, pulling me into his large chest. His grip suffocates me, but I don’t try to pull away. He’s mumbling something into my hair, his hand cradling the back of my head, the rapid thundering of his heart a steady medium in my ears.
“Look, Faye, when you called me…I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. I was worried something bad had happened to you, and I was right. I need to know I’m keeping you safe, otherwise I’m going to lose my mind.”
Friends. Did I seriously just say that? Why did I say that? Why couldn’t I just tell her the truth? I want to be so much more than just friends.
Faye’s the embodiment of everything pure in this world, like the furry, white heads of blooming dandelions swirling away in a summer breeze, or the way seafoam laps between your toes before dissolving into damp granules of sand.
Jesus. I want to hug her, touch her. I want to hold her in my arms and never let go.
“You’re so content with carrying all this weight on your shoulders. Now let me carry some of it for you.”
“When it’s fun sized and dangerously addictive like you, I am very afraid.”
I want to mean something to someone.” Faye means more to me than she’ll ever know.
“I can’t! I’m so fucking hard right now that I can’t think straight. You do this to me. No other girl does, okay? All of the girls I’ve been with haven’t held a candle to you. You’re all I ever think about, and it kills me that I can’t have you.”
I’m going to finish reading this dirty little book of yours, and then I’m going to have you show me exactly how you want me to touch you.
I just wanna talk.
People talk with their hands all the time, Faye. It’s called ASL.
I watch and admire the way Faye lights up with excitement when she finds a book that piques her interest. She keeps handing them to me, and yeah, there might be a slight ache in my arms, but I’d carry enough books to fill up a library for her. When she finally decides that thirty-some-odd
books are enough, I pay at the checkout, hefting each bag up my arm.
He annotated a book for me. Kit Langley annotated a book for me. Kit Langley—the man who’s never been with the same woman twice—carved time out of his day to read a book and tab it. This has to be some kind of fever dream.
I slowly open the book to a random page and am greeted by a medley of pastel-colored, miniature sticky notes scattered through various paragraphs. And not only that, but there are passages underlined with little notes scribbled in the margins.
“I underlined things that reminded me of you.”
“I will be busy, and I will have eighty-two games to play. But I don’t care. I don’t care how exhausted I am. I will always make time for you.”
