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I’m still his number one. Just like he’s mine.
“Man-handle me much?”
“Some closer you are.” “I’m a catcher. I catch balls.”
That, even though he’s the only guy I’ve kissed, ever since that night, I can’t stop thinking about wanting to just grab him by the shirt and haul his mouth to mine again.
“I didn’t want to kiss you because I didn’t want it to mess me up all over again, okay?”
In a way that’s more aching want than friendship, because the sound and taste and feel of him from the night we kissed have all been seared into my brain with a white-hot brand ever since. Swirling around there rent-free when I should’ve done the smart thing, locking them away in a safe at the back of my mind and losing the combination forever.
