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Seems we don’t have that in common. Not when it comes to her, anyway. I know myself. I’ll be done for the second I touch her.
He looks like trouble. The good kind of trouble. The leave a beard rash on the insides of my thighs kind of trouble.
“Keep dreaming. I will personally take you on a joyride and belt out the song of your choice.” “Whiskey In The Jar? The Metallica version.” “You want me to belt out Metallica on a feel-good joyride?”
“Jenna, don’t ever not call me. Ever. Do you hear me? Day or night, no matter—no matter where we are twenty years from now. No matter what you need. Call.”
“Your hair isn’t wacky, Jenna. I love your hair.”
It’s a damn reflex at this point. I don’t remember how it started. But it’s a reflex, and the second my lips hit her forehead, the second I pull back to absolute crickets at the table, I know I messed up. Committed a fatal error.
My eyes narrow. What the hell does he think he’s doing, just staring at her— Finally, he returns a laugh. Yeah. He’d better laugh at her jokes. She jokes, you laugh. It’s not a hard concept.
Maybe I should feel jealous. Probably should. But all I feel is a suffocating warmth in my chest, swelling it by about ten sizes. Pride, I realize. Awe. Satisfaction. Because this is Jenna. She deserves to be worshiped by every person fortunate enough to cross her path. Crowd of fevered morons included.
What’s there to be jealous about? She might be gracing these privileged fuckers with dimpled smiles now. But— “I’m the one who gets to have her at home.”
“And when you doubt yourself again or forget who you are even for a second, you come to me. I’ll remind you that you’re Jenna Fucking Carling. Every. Single. Time.”
When he talks to me like that—when he looks at me like that, it doesn’t feel like it. I do feel perfect. Like I was created in a collective effort by every god worshiped on earth.
“Jenna, I have a hard time picturing you getting married because I wouldn’t have you to myself anymore. And I have a hard time accepting that there’s a guy out there who’s worthy of my dream girl.”
“Jenna,” I barely recognize my own voice. She squeezes my hand. “Yeah?” “You make it really hard, sometimes. Convincing myself I can live without you.”
