Ugly Love Part 10

She's apologizing to Miles now. She's embarra.s.sed.

Still confused.

"Am I missing something?" my dad asks.

My mother points her fork at Miles. "He's gay, honey," she says.

Um . . .

"Is not," my dad says firmly, laughing at her a.s.sumption.

I'm shaking my head. Don't shake your head, Tate.

"Miles isn't gay," I say defensively, looking at my mother.

Why did I say that out loud?

Now Corbin looks confused. He looks at Miles. A spoonful of potatoes is paused in midair in front of Miles, and his eyebrow is c.o.c.ked. He's staring at Corbin.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," Corbin says. "I didn't know it was a secret. Dude, I'm so sorry."

Miles lowers his spoonful of mashed potatoes to his plate, still eyeing Corbin with a perplexed look about him. "I'm not gay."

Corbin nods. He holds up his palms and mouths, "I'm sorry," like he didn't mean to reveal such a big secret.

Miles shakes his head. "Corbin. I'm not gay. Never have been and pretty sure I never will be. What the h.e.l.l, man?"

Corbin and Miles are staring at each other, and everyone else is watching Miles.

"B-but," Corbin stutters. "You said . . . one time you told me . . ."

Miles drops his spoon and covers his mouth with his hand, stifling his loud laughter.

Oh, my G.o.d, Miles. Laugh.

Laugh, laugh, laugh. Please think this is the funniest thing that's ever happened, because your laugh is also so much better than Thanksgiving dinner.

"What did I say to you that made you think I was gay?"

Corbin sits back in his chair. "I don't remember, exactly. You said something about not being with a girl in more than three years. I just thought that was your way of telling me you were gay."

Everyone is laughing now. Even me.

"That was more than three years ago! This whole time, you've thought I was gay?"

Corbin is still confused. "But . . ."

Tears. Miles has tears he's laughing so hard.

It's beautiful.

I feel bad for Corbin. He's kind of embarra.s.sed. I do like how Miles thinks it's funny, though. I like that it didn't embarra.s.s him.

"Three years?" my dad says, still stuck on the same thought I'm still kind of stuck on.

"That was three years ago," Corbin says, finally laughing along with Miles. "It's probably been six by now."

The table slowly grows quiet. This embarra.s.ses Miles.

I keep thinking about that kiss in the bathroom earlier and how I know for a fact it hasn't been six years since he's been with a girl. A guy with a mouth as possessive as that one knows how to use it, and I'm sure it gets used a lot.

I don't want to think about it.

I don't want my family thinking about it.

"You're bleeding again," I say, looking down at the blood-soaked gauze that's still wrapped around his hand. I turn to my mother. "Do you have any liquid bandage?"

"No," she says. "That stuff scares me."

I look at Miles. "After we eat, I'll check it," I say.

Miles nods but never looks at me. My mother asks me about work, and Miles is no longer the center of attention. I think he's relieved about that.

I turn off my light and crawl into bed, not sure what to make of today. We never spoke again after dinner, even though I spent a good ten minutes redressing his wound in the living room.

We didn't speak through the entire process. Our legs didn't touch. His finger didn't touch my knee. He didn't even look up at me. He just watched his hand the entire time, focused on it like it would fall off if he looked away.

I don't know what to think about Miles or that kiss. He's obviously attracted to me, or he wouldn't have kissed me. Sadly, that's enough for me. I don't even care if he likes me. I just want him to be attracted to me, because the liking can come later.

I close my eyes and try to fall asleep for the fifth time, but it's pointless. I roll onto my side and face the door just in time to see the shadow of someone's feet approach it. I watch the door, waiting for it to open, but the shadows disappear, and footsteps continue down the hall. I'm almost positive that was Miles but only because he's the only person on my mind right now. I release a few controlled breaths in order to calm myself down enough to decide whether I want to follow him. I'm only on the third breath when I hop out of bed.

I debate brus.h.i.+ng my teeth again, but it's only been twenty minutes since I last brushed them.

I check my hair in the mirror, then open my bedroom door and walk as quietly as I can into the kitchen.

When I round the corner, I see him. All of him. He's leaning against the bar, facing me, almost like he was expecting me.

G.o.d, I hate that.

I pretend it's just a coincidence that we ended up here at the same time, even though it's midnight. "Can't sleep?" I walk past him to the refrigerator and reach for the orange juice. I take it out, pour myself a gla.s.s, then lean against the counter across from him. He's watching me, but he doesn't answer my question.

"Are you sleepwalking?"

He smiles, soaking me up from head to toe with his eyes like a sponge. "You really love orange juice," he says, amused.

I look down at my gla.s.s, then back up to him, and shrug. He takes a step toward me and motions for the gla.s.s. I hand it to him, and he brings it to his lips, takes a slow sip, and hands it back to me. All these movements are completed without his ever breaking eye contact with me.

Well, I definitely love orange juice now.

"I love it, too," he says, even though I never answered him.

I set the gla.s.s down beside me, grip the edges of the counter, and push myself up until I'm seated on it. I pretend he isn't invading my entire being, but he's still everywhere. Filling the kitchen.

The entire house.

It's way too quiet. I decide to make the first move.

"Has it really been six years since you've had a girlfriend?"

He nods without hesitation, and I'm both shocked and extremely pleased by that answer. I'm not sure why I like it. I guess it's just so much better than what I was imagining his life was like.

"Wow. Have you at least . . ." I don't know how to finish this sentence.

"Had s.e.x?" he interjects.

I'm glad the only light on is the one over the kitchen stove, because I'm absolutely blus.h.i.+ng right now.

"Not everyone wants the same things out of life," he says. His voice is soft, like a down comforter. I want to roll around in it, wrap myself up in that voice.

"Everyone wants love," I say. "Or at least s.e.x. It's human nature."

I can't believe we're having this conversation.

He folds his arms across his chest. His feet cross at the ankles. I've noticed this is his form of personal armor. He's putting up his invisible s.h.i.+eld again, guarding himself from giving too much away.

"Most people can't have one without the other," he says. "So I find it easier to just give up both." He's studying me, gauging my reaction to his words. I do my best not to give him one.

"So which of the two do you not want, Miles?" My voice is embarra.s.singly weak. "Love or s.e.x?"

His eyes remain the same, but his mouth changes. His lips curl up into a barely there smile. "I think you already know the answer to that, Tate."

Wow.

I blow out a controlled breath, not even caring if he knows those words affected me like they did. The way he says my name makes me feel just as fl.u.s.tered as his kiss did. I cross my legs at the knees, hoping he doesn't notice it's my own personal armor.

His eyes drop to my legs, and I watch him softly inhale.

Six years. Unbelievable.

I look down at my legs, too. I want to ask him another question, but I can't look at him when I ask it. "How long has it been since you kissed a girl?"

"Eight hours," he replies without hesitation. I raise my eyes to his, and he grins, because he knows what I'm asking him. "The same," he utters quietly. "Six years."

I don't know what happens to me, but something changes. Something melts. Something hard or cold or covered in my own personal armor is turning to liquid now that I'm realizing what that kiss really meant. I feel like I'm nothing but liquid, and liquid doesn't do a good job of standing or walking away, so I don't move.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask, disbelievingly.

I think he's the one blus.h.i.+ng now.

I'm so confused. I don't understand how I've pegged him so wrong or how what he's saying is even possible. He's good-looking. He has a great job. He definitely knows how to kiss, so why hasn't he been doing it?

"What's your deal, then?" I ask him. "You have STDs?" It's the nurse in me. I have no medical filter.

He laughs. "Pretty d.a.m.n clean," he says. He still doesn't explain himself, though.

"If it's been six years since you kissed a girl, then why did you kiss me? I was under the impression you didn't even really like me. You're really hard to read."

He doesn't ask me why I'm under the impression that he doesn't like me.

I think if it's obvious to me that he's different when he's around me, it's been intentional on his part.

"It's not that I don't like you, Tate." He sighs heavily and runs his hands through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. "I just don't want to like you. I don't want to like anyone. I don't want to date anyone. I don't want to love anyone. I just . . ." He folds his arms back across his chest and looks down at the floor.

"You just what?" I ask, urging him to finish that sentence. His eyes slowly lift back to mine, and it takes all I have to stay seated on this counter with the way he's looking at me right now-like I'm Thanksgiving dinner.

"I'm attracted to you, Tate," he says, his voice low. "I want you, but I want you without any of that other stuff."

I have no thoughts left.

Brain = Liquid.

Heart = b.u.t.ter.

I can still sigh, though, so I do.

I wait until I can think again. Then I think a lot.

He just admitted that he wants to have s.e.x with me; he just doesn't want it to lead to anything. I don't know why this flatters me. It should make me want to punch him, but the fact that he chose to kiss me after not having kissed anyone for six straight years makes this new confession seem like I just won a Pulitzer.

We're staring at each other again, and he looks a little bit nervous. I'm sure he's wondering if he just p.i.s.sed me off. I don't want him to think that, because, honestly, I want to yell "I won!" at the top of my lungs.

I have no idea what to say. We've had the strangest and most awkward conversations since I met him, and this one definitely takes the cake.

"Our conversations are so weird," I say.

He laughs with relief. "Yes."

The word yes is so much more beautiful coming from his mouth, laced with that voice. He could probably make any word beautiful. I try to think of a word I hate. I kind of hate the word ox. It's an ugly word. Too short and clipped. I wonder if his voice could make me love that word.

"Say the word ox."

His eyebrow rises, like he's wondering if he heard me right. He thinks I'm weird.

I don't care.

"Just say it," I tell him.