Page 49 of Tainted Love

“Why would it?” Michael asks, his tone laced with confusion.

“You’re a hockey player. It’s such a masculine sport. I wasn’t sure you’d like someone so different from you.”

“Sash,” he starts, his deep voice laced with a hint of regret and pain, “I couldn’t care less about who someone loves.”

I must be staring at him with a look of confusion on my face, which prompts him to explain further.

“I’m sorry your friend moved. He seemed like a cool guy. And being gay doesn’t mean a thing to me. Being an asshole does.”

My brows pique as if to bat this moment of introspection back onto himself.

“Yes. I’ve been an asshole in the past. I get that,” he admits. “Especially when I was younger and dumber than I am now. But I’d never judge someone like you assume I would. My own mother walked out on my family for the lead singer of a shitty garage band, leaving my father and brother to spiral into drug addiction. I’m the guy living in the glass house—I’m not throwing stones at anyone.”

Damn this man. With each word, he chips away at the steel cage that’s guarded my heart for so long. His raw honesty and vulnerability seep through every crack and crevice, making it increasingly difficult to hold on to my anger and righteous indignation.

After the bleaching and toning are done, I leave Michael to shower and clean while I get some space. Maybe it’s his proximity or the chemicals, but all I could think about for the past twenty minutes was what it would feel like to press my lips to his.

An exasperated cry escapes my lips, echoing through the empty room. I need to halt this train of thought before it derails and I end up in a mental ditch. The last time I got my hopes up about this guy, it ended in disaster. And now, he’s living in my house. If things go wrong again, I’ll have nowhere to hide.

Sitting at my desk, I pull my legs up onto the chair and open my history book with a sigh. But as much as I try to focus, the words on the pages might as well be written in Latin. The dates and events blur together in my mind. When was the Civil War? And World War I? And the Great Depression? How does Michael kiss?

Frustrated, I snap my book shut and reach for my Walkman to drown out my thoughts with music. But as I rewind the tape, there’s a sharp knock on my bedroom door.

“Sash!” Michael’s urgent and excited voice echoes through the hallway. “Come downstairs.”

I hesitate, wondering what he could possibly want from me this time. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I make my way down the stairs, following his booming footsteps to the kitchen.

“What is it?” I ask warily as I enter the room.

Michael stands at the counter with a proud smile, holding up a sandwich on one of my mom’s beloved Corelle Pyrex plates.

“What’s going on?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I made us a late-night snack,” he says, beaming with excitement.

“It’s a sandwich,” I reply.

“It’s not just any sandwich,” he says with a smile. “It’s peanut butter, banana, and marshmallow fluff.”

Normally, I’m adept at suppressing my emotions, but at this moment, it’s impossible. “Oh my God!” I scream and jump up and down like a child, overwhelmed with nostalgia and happiness. “You remember that?”

“Hell yeah, I remember that,” he exclaims. His hand reaches out to offer me half of the sandwich, and I eagerly take a bite, savoring the sweetness as it dances across my tastebuds.

“This is amazing,” I mumble with my mouth full. “Where did you get fluff?” I ask, surprised.

“I bought some,” he responds, shrugging his shoulders.

He’s not like how I imagined him to be. Or maybe I’m not the person I thought I was, either. All I know is that the distance between us feels unbearable now.

He looks at me skeptically as I drop my sandwich on the plate and take in his appearance. Standing in my kitchen under the harsh yellow light, he still looks stunning, his newly bleached hair still damp and spiking up in all directions like some kind of rebellious halo.

As if pulled by an irresistible force, my body moves forward with determination until I stand directly before him. He tilts his head slightly and meets my gaze, a questioning expression etched on his features. My hands reach out and gently cradle his face as I rise up onto my tiptoes, our noses almost touching.

A flicker of understanding illuminates his eyes, like a distant light finally reaching the surface. Suddenly, the intensity in his gaze ignites into a blazing fire, sending sparks dancing through the air. My own eyes can’t resist drifting down to his lips, their fullness and temptation irresistible, and I lick mine in response. But I quickly bring my focus back to meet his gaze once again. If he denies me another kiss, I’m going to crawl into a hole and die. But the look on his face tells me he won’t deny me this time.

With a confident grip, he places his hands on my hips, pulling me closer to him. My fingers instinctively thread around his neck, our bodies so close together I can feel the heat coming from his skin.

I inch my face closer to his, expecting him to close the remaining distance between us. But instead, he holds back with a sly smile playing on his lips. It’s a challenge, a power play between us. And now, I don’t care who wins or loses because I only think about how badly I want this kiss.