31
932 Words
There’s a pause, then he says in a stage whisper, “You’re getting super snippy.”
I sigh heavily. “You’re right. I apologize. I’m very embarrassed, that’s all.”
He sounds surprised. “You don’t have to be embarrassed to be yourself around me.”
“Thank you for that, but usually being myself doesn’t involve unattractive sounds emanating from my body.”
Another pause, this one longer. “I don’t think your sounds are unattractive.”
“You can’t see it because of this blanket over my face, but I’m rolling my eyes right now.”
“I’m being serious. Your burps are cute.”
I know what this is. He’s trying to make me feel better for him looking so horrified when I asked him about the young woman/big boob thing. He’s hoping I won’t fire him.
“I’ll add that to your file. ‘Enjoys women with robust bodily functions.’”
His voice grows quiet. “I didn’t say women. I said you.”
My mouth goes dry, and it’s not because of the whiskey. “Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“I have to say something now.”
“Are you gonna take the blanket off your face?”
“No.”
“It’s kinda awkward to have a conversation with a blanket.”
“It’ll be even more awkward to look you in the eye when I’m saying what I have to say, so hopefully you can cut me a break just this once.”
I hear him shift around on the coffee table, moving his weight. Then his voice comes from only a few inches away.
“This sounds like it’s gonna be juicy. Go ahead.”
I like that husky tone in his voice way, way too much for my own good.
I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the glass in my hand so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter. “Okay. It’s just… the thing is…” I struggle for a second, casting around helplessly for the right words
as the world spins slowly underneath my eyelids. “I have an overactive imagination.” Silence.
I hurry on. “And you’re… well, I know you’re not intentionally doing anything, you’re just being you, very, um, masculine and whatnot, but… but...”
When I can’t work up the courage to go on, he says, “I’m offending you again.” His voice is low and tight and has lost all the teasing from only moments ago.
I flip the blanket off my face to find him leaning close, his elbows on his knees, his expression that of someone who’s just been told his grandma died in a tragic knitting accident.
It flips the switch on my tongue-tied problem. I start to gush.
“No! God, no, that’s not what I’m saying! You’re very charismatic is all—I mean, when you’re not being hostile—and my overactive imagination causes me to misinterpret certain things you do and say to mean you’re flirting with me—oh, Lord, you’re turning green, please don’t throw up—and I’m only telling you this so that you won’t think you’ve done something wrong when I start acting like a mental patient, because I really do want to help you, but you were right about me not having much experience with men other than Robert, he was my one serious long-term relationship, and I’ve been single for a while now, and that’s probably making my imagination even worse, and sweet baby Jesus, I’m babbling.”
With a whimper, I hide under the blanket again.
Mason lets me lie there in agony for a while, listening to the roar of my heartbeat and praying for the sudden onset of a brain hemorrhage to make it all go away, until he speaks. “You think I’m charismatic?” The bastard sounds amused.
“Are you kidding me right now?”
He ignores my outburst. “Masculine, you said, too. And earlier you said I was smart and funny. I sound like the perfect man.”
My groan is hopeless. “I’ve created a monster.”
He ignores that, too. “Which is odd, considering you don’t like me.”
I bolt upright, making the room spin. The glass drops onto the floor and rolls under the couch. “I never said that!”
“So you do like me.”
His voice is still light, but his jaw is tight and his eyes are burning, and now I’m utterly confused.
“I’m… I… um…”
“Because you shouldn’t.”
We stare at each other. It’s suddenly very hard to breathe.
His voice lowers an octave. “I’m not a good guy, Pink. You know it. I know it. I’m the bad guy, and that’s never gonna change.”
I manage to gather enough wits to form a coherent sentence. “I disagree with that.”
“Because you don’t know me,” comes the swift, hard response. “And because you believe in white knights and fairytale endings. But I’m the dark knight in this story, the one who kills the prince and sacks the castle and burns the village to the ground. Don’t romanticize me. I’m not worth it.”
I should be embarrassed. This is a rebuke, after all. He’s telling me not to crush on him—which, for the record, I wasn’t—but this level of sheer ego combined with the stunning depths of his own self-loathing has the opposite effect.
I can’t remember the last time I was this mad.
- Writer
