Page 102 of Vicious Intentions
I don’t remind him that he’s kissed me before. Instead, I say, “Both.”
We stay on the line, listening to each other breathe, and that’s when I realize we’re both breathing hard, as if we’d just run a marathon.
“Do you want me to hang up?” he asks after a while.
“Does it matter what I want? You’re the one who said it was getting late,” I pout.
And then he does the most unexpected thing. He chuckles.
“I’ve never seen this side of you before. Do you always get like this when you don’t get what you want?” he asks, a soft chuckle lingering in his voice.
My brows furrow at his question.
“Actually… no. I never act like—”
“A brat?” he cuts in, laughing, and I can’t help but laugh with him.
“No one’s ever called me that before. Usually, Stella’s the one with the bratty temper. Or at least that’s what my parents and her husband say.” I smile. “I’ve always been more… well-tempered.”
“You mean you’ve always played the part of the perfect daughter,” he says, far too perceptive. “Isn’t that why you hate the word?”
“I guess it is.” I nod.
“I thought as much.” He lets out an exhale. “Can I say something?”
“That all depends. Are you going to tease me again?”
“I might,” he chuckles, his tone softening. “I know you despise the word, but… imperfections can feel like perfection too. It all depends on the person who sees them that way. Do you understand?”
“No, not really.”
“What I’m trying to say, however ineloquently,” he adds, “is that when I called you perfect… I meant you are perfect…forme.”
My eyes widen at the sincerity in his tone.
“Oh.”
“Yeah…oh. So next time I say something like that, don’t get upset with me. It’s just me trying to tell you how I feel. Okay?”
If that’s really how he feels, then why did he end our imaginary kiss so abruptly? I want to ask if I did something wrong. If I said something wrong. I want to ask so many things. But the courage I had while kissing him has vanished, and suddenly, all I feel is empty. Like a part of me is missing. Like the best part of me just dissolved into thin air.
“Anna… sweetheart… talk to me?”
“I’m not sure what you expect me to say.”
“Just tell me your truth. If you’re still upset, I want to know. Just talk to me,cara mia. Please. I can handle whatever you have to say. Just tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
“I’m feeling… bereft.”
“Bereft?” he echoes, like the word itself wounded him.
“Yes. When you stopped us from… you know… kissing, I felt like you didn’t want me anymore. Like you don’t feel… the same things I do.”
I think I hear him swallow before he asks, “And whatareyou feeling?”
“Do I have to say it?”
He lets out a strained sigh. “No, sweetheart. You don’t have to tell me anything that makes you uncomfortable. I’d never ask that of you.”
