Page 89 of The Great Dating Fake Off
The word expands in the air like a bubble about to burst.
“On our behalf,” I clarify.
Something raw passes across her delicate features. “Gotcha. I thought you meant…” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
I’ve been so consumed by my interest in her I didn’t let myself think about what it all means or what would happen next. And now that the week is over—sooner than any of us planned, thanks to what just went down—we’re forced to confront this now.
She knows I’m moving. Worse: I know, and I pursued her anyway, because I like her too damn much.
I want to tell her I’m not ready for this to be over, but it’d be selfish to expect her to waste her time with me for the next few weeks when nothing could come of it. Even if more time together is exactly what I want. Every free day and night until I have to go, preferably.
Which is why having this conversation at all is a total mind fuck.
“We’re heading home today,” I finally force myself to say.
She rubs the space above her eyebrow. “And you’re moving soon.”
Hearing it from her mouth lands like a blow, even though I was already thinking it. “Yeah. I am.”
Her gaze lingers on mine. In case I needed more proof that I should distance myself from her, there’s an electric charge in the air between us, even at the worst possible time. It’s the way I want to kiss away the disappointment in her eyes that I put there in the first place.
She tucks her hair behind her ears, her tone devoid of its usual pep. “I’ve got to head inside and start packing. Benji will want to clear out fast. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
“In fairness, he wanted to clear out the minute he got here.”
My attempt to lighten the mood to distract myself from the way my stomach is twisting into a painful knot, falls flat.
A drumbeat of panic echoes in my head. This does not feel like the right way to end things. We were tangled up in each other less than three hours ago, making plans for tonight.
“Have a good drive home.”
I wince at my own statement. It’s not enough.
She tips her frown toward the ground and fumbles in her pocket for the key card that’ll let her back in the building. “Bye, Sebastian.”
I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from hauling her into my arms to erase the last hour and bring us back to where we were this morning. But there’s no going back.
We’re over before we even began.
…
Alessia wedged a shoe in her door to keep it open, presumably so I could let myself in.
I wish she was a little less thoughtful sometimes. It’d help with this next part.
She’s meticulously folding a shirt when I skulk into the room, determined to stop reeling from my conversation with Nora long enough to give this chat my full attention.
“Need help?” I perch on the foot of her bed in the one square foot not covered in clothing.
“Nah. I have a system.” Her eyes briefly meet mine. “And you’re a horrible folder.”
“You fold like you still work at Abercrombie.”
She lets out an unholy sound. “Don’t remind me. I still smell that place in my nightmares.”
I squeeze my knees as she makes quick work of a pair of overalls. Silence falls between us. If she’s truly angry at me—which she has every right to be—I don’t know how I’ll stand it. We don’t fight. She and Enzo? They tussle all the time and make up minutes later. It’s what they do.
But she and I? We haven’t fought in years. I truly hope this won’t be one of those times.
