Page 72 of Down Bad

Until I realize he’s just fixing the flower on my lapel.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It went a little cockeyed.”

“Did it?”

His lip curls up at one corner. “The flower looked … tortured.”

“You’re torturing it right now.”

“No, I’m not. I’m fixing it.”

“You’re a master of torture.”

He pauses.

Eyes flicking up to mine.

It’s the liquid courage speaking. “Been torturing me all night,” I go on. Where are these words coming from? “Looking like that. Looking the way you do. Touching my jacket. Now the flower.”

He lets go. “I’m—I’m not …” He chuckles—and goes silent right away. “Just being a perfectionist. I wasn’t meaning to … to …” He leans against the back of the couch and turns toward the window, out of words.

For some reason, I ain’t done. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” he mutters, still staring at the window.

“What you’re doing.”

He crosses his arms, saying nothing.

After a second, I smirk and lean in closer to him. “It’s okay if you want to touch me.”

“I … I’m not …” He snorts and looks away even more. “I wasn’t trying to touch you. I was just—”

“I want you to touch me.”

That stops him. Mouth left open.

Breath held, too, I think.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax his arms. Just stands there like a rock. Staring at the window. Not really looking at anything.

He’s not ready.

He’s not making a move.

And I don’t push people.

If he isn’t into it. Or is too freaked out. Or just simply wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of a bunch of rich people rooms with no hurry to get back to the pavilion. Fine by me. I’ll just sit here and suffer, let my feelings eat themselves. They always do anyway.

“Alright,” I mumble, leaning against the back of the fancy-ass couch, too, crossing my arms, and saying nothing else.

Then his shoulder presses against mine.

Sidling up to me.

Gently.

I feel the weight of him against me before I register that he’s even gotten closer.