Page 179 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
She peeped through the peephole and stepped back, surprised to see Blake on the other side. Opening the door, she said, “What are you doing here? You have a game tomorrow.” Blake never stayed out l
ate or drank on game nights. He was superstitious to a fault and spent every Friday night doing the exact same routine, scared that if he deviated, he would lose a game.
“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Summer stepped away so he could come in and shut the door behind him. His gaze swept from her to the TV, his eyebrows scrunching together. “Is that ESPN?” He turned to her, waiting.
“Oh. Yeah, I must have hit the remote while I was sleeping.”
Blake stared at her. He knew her too well for her to lie. “Were you watching . . . for me?”
She adjusted from one foot to the other, uncomfortably. “No, I wasn’t—No. Remote controls are absurd things. They change at the tiniest of pressure. There should be a study to—”
“Summer. Please, just be real.”
“Fine.” Summer tossed up her hands and sat down on her bed, crossing her legs. “I was watching you. So what?”
Blake glanced again at the TV, then to her. “Why?”
Of all the things they should be talking about right then . . . “Why does it matter? What are you doing here?”
“Why did you leave?” Blake asked, his face changing from curiosity to hurt. “Was it . . . ? I mean, I realize I’m not . . .”
Summer tilted her head. “It wasn’t you. Well it was, but not in the way you’re thinking.” She dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. She didn’t want to have this conversation.
“Then, what?” Blake pressed.
Summer sighed. “Can’t we just forget it happened and go back to how things were before?” Even as she said the words, she knew it was impossible. What happened changed them, their relationship, forever.
“Is that what you want? Honestly? To just forget it happened.”
Summer opened her mouth, prepared to spout out the lie above all lies, when she caught the look on Blake’s face. She was hurting him. One of only two people in the entire world that she cared about and she was hurting him. “No,” she finally answered, her shoulders hunching forward as if to protect her heart.
“The fire?”
Summer laughed. “No, but I think that topped the list of most embarrassing sexual experiences ever.”
Blake leaned back against her desk and crossed his arms, forcing his biceps to flex against the arms of his T-shirt. Summer drew an unsteady breath. “Are you just not attracted to me, then?”
At that, she broke into near hysterics.
“Dammit, Summer, this isn’t funny.”
She smiled. “Have you seen yourself? Every girl on our campus is attracted to you. Likely every girl across the country with a freaking TV.” Her smile faded as she took in Blake’s icy expression.
“I didn’t ask about them. I asked about you.” He refused to break eye contact, forcing Summer to answer honestly.
She contemplated for only a second, and then the words were tumbling out so fast, she didn’t have time to breathe before she’d confessed everything. “I’m so completely drawn to you that I’m petrified I’ll never be attracted to another guy again.”
Blake started toward her, all the worry from before replaced with his trademark intensity. “Then why are we talking?”
Nine
SUDDENLY ALL THE fear Blake had felt before disappeared, and it was just he and Summer, and he wasn’t nearly close enough. He reached her in one step, took her face in his hands, and crushed his lips to hers. For a moment they became lost in each other, all the years of friendship and trust and longing, pressed into that single kiss.
Blake pulled away to look at Summer, desperate to have her in his arms again, but he knew something had rattled her before, and he didn’t want to push her. “We can stop if you want,” he said, though every bone in his body begged for her to say no.
Summer’s flushed face turned up toward his, her lips swollen from their kiss. He trailed his thumb over her lips, his gaze dropping, before returning to her eyes. A war seemed to be going on within her head, her eyes telling a different story than her body.
