Page 23 of From Square One

I’m too exhausted to deal with whatever teasing he has planned, so I say, “You left.”

“You think so?” Aaron reaches for me, and I hate that after spending one day with him, I no longer feel the need to lurch away. I hate that his touch is warm. That my body recognizes it and feels comfort in it. He sprawls his palm around my jawline and tugs, pulling my irritable face toward his. “You think we parted ways without sealing the deal?”

My scowl deepens. Aaron suggested following our relationship’s physical progression, so skipping over the kissing isn’t going to do my clueless brain any favors. I’ll get this over with, then, and maybe I’ll get a flashback out of it.

I close my eyes and pucker up.

I feel a tiny puff of air against my nose, like he laughed. He nudges my chin higher, and I brace, my heart drowning out any other sounds, waiting for the feeling of his slender lips to fall on mine. Suddenly, his amused voice is whispering in my ear.

“I never said we kissed. But I’m glad to see you’re so willing.”

Fiery heat tears through my body like a rip current, and I shout in frustrated disbelief, then shove his shoulders. To my surprise, he lets me push him, but it’s because he’s too busy clutching his stomach and laughing to seize me. “Shut up!” I growl, and catching sight of my body mirror does me no favors. My normally pasty, ashen face is rose red. “I can’t believe I let you into my room! Get out, you creep!”

“Creep?” he chokes out, allowing me to usher him to the window, tears of hilarity glassing his eyes. “How could you? I’m a gentleman—”

“Get out!” I say in a high-pitched wheeze, and with one final laugh, he slides out of my window and nestles his weight onto the branch outside.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Keep the window unlocked. I’ll take you through our first date. So get lots of sleep, okay?”

I slam the window shut and draw the shades without answering. I can still hear him snickering through the glass. “Asshole,” I snarl quietly, and I storm to my bed, then throw myself beneath my covers.

Of course, I don’t sleep a wink.

9

I don’t let my distractions stop me from tackling my to-do list. Mom is a speech pathologist with an erratic schedule, Dad works overtime at the bank, and Logan is balancing community college summer courses with his part-time position as a student assistant, so it’s my job to make sure the gears are turning.

I separate the mail and mark the most important ones, then pick up everyone’s prescriptions at the pharmacy, then stop by the library to get Mom’s book on hold, then buy a cake from the bakery so Dad has something to bring to his office party (I’m glad I had an emergency mask on hand for that one, since the request came on my way home).

My insomnia since the coma hasn’t been helping with my “healing” process, and last night was the worst yet. Every time I closed my eyes, Aaron’s smug, snide face awaited me.

And I have to see him again tonight.

It’s still strange around the house. My family avoids mentioning the accident, my move-out period, and Aaron Beckham. It’s as if the past year doesn’t exist, and their nonchalance is making it more difficult for me to process everything. Existing is a surreal, disorienting experience, and whenever I run into some small issue—like the Tupperware is in a different cabinet than I remember—the frustration is crushing.

Aaron doesn’t show up until midnight, which doesn’t do my apprehension any favors. I’ve texted him twelve times, asking what I should wear and what the date will involve and when we’ll get back, because I’m a planner. I need to know these things. He sends back a single message that reads:

You’ll see

To which I call him and he sends me to voicemail.

To which I call him again and leave a heated message about how the date is off because I would sooner eat an entire loaf of bread and suffer the consequences than ever see his face again.

To which he shows up anyway and pokes at my bedroom window until I rip the curtain open and spit, “You’re unbearable,” through the panes.

He taps his ear. “Can’t hear,” he responds, his voice muffled but perfectly audible. “There’s a window in the way.”

“Child,” I grumble, hiking the frame up and allowing him to slink from the tree branch into my room. His curls are unkempt and his black nail polish looks new but is chipped at the tips, like he painted them this morning and then had to work with his hands all day. He looks perfectly…

Casual.

It’s too late for me to throw myself behind my dresser and hide. He’s taking me in—my slacks, button-down shirt, brushed-out honey-blond hair. He sucks his lips between his teeth to keep from bursting into laughter, and the sight chars every inch of my skin. “Don’t make fun of me!” I order, and that’s what gets him to hunch over and laugh manically. “You didn’t give me any information, so I wanted to be prepared!”

I throw my hands against his shoulders to shove, and he immediately detains my wrists, pulling me across the carpet. He hoists my imprisoned arms behind his neck, drawing my face closer, his own distractingly luminescent and warm. Moth to a flame and all that.

“Thank you for dressing up even though you hate me,” he says. “I kept you in the dark last time, so I thought I was just following the rules.”

I’m hot enough to crisp bacon. “Just because I’m smaller than you doesn’t give you free rein to yank me around,” I snap, twisting out of his grip.