I wanted him to panic, to worry, to feel bad for me, to cry for me. To cry for me.
Right now she looks calculating, staring at me like this. I want to grab my camera and take a picture of her. Something twirls in my stomach like ribbons, and I’m not sure if it’s nerves or hunger or my reaction to the girl standing next to me.
She laughs and rushes to me, throwing her arms around my neck. “You’re the best, most understanding boyfriend in the whole wide world.” I hug her back and sigh. “No, I’m not. I’m the most whipped boyfriend in the whole wide world.
You’re so blantantly attracted to me, it’s hard not to tease you.
I’m the awkward writer who posts a picture of my book and says, “It’s an okay book. There are words in it. Read it if you want.
The fact that I’m the reason for that heated look in his eyes makes me feel even more desirable than when I imagine being perfect.
My whole life, I knew exactly what I’d do if a man ever treated me the way my father treated my mother. It was simple. I would leave and it would never happen again. But.
You know, most things, people say when they’re drunk are more accurate and honest than the things they say when they’re sober.
The tenderness in his touch lashes out and scars my heart.
She’s watching me: strands of hair stand between me and a full view of her face. She’s beautiful, but in a shameful way. One I’m not sure I’m supposed to appreciate. Everything about her is captivating, like the aftermath of a storm. People aren’t supposed to get pleasure out of the destruction Mother Nature is capable of, but we want to stare anyway. Charlie is the devastation left in the wake of a tornado.
That emptiness is being replaced with heat and flutters and heartbeats, and I hate it because it feels like I’ve just pinpointed what has caused me to feel so empty these past few weeks. Jonah. Sometimes when we’re alone, he looks at me in a way that makes me feel empty when he looks away. It’s a feeling I’ve never gotten when Chris looks at me. This realization scares me to death.
I wonder what kind of sound it would make if I were to smash this glass against the side of his head.
I used to hate everybody,” I say. “Until I met you.
I tell myself to take it one day at the time, but it’s so much easier said that done.
You don’t exist, God. If you do, you should be ashamed.
If this is his idea of flirting, it’s a strange way to flirt. But sadly, I’m attracted to unconventional and strange.
That won’t be enough for me, Auburn. I can already tell. And whoever’s favorite color is blue won’t stand a chance in this tent, because I’m about to make sure that the only thing she ever thinks about when she sees a tent again is Oh My God.
Every day of my life it feels as if I’m fighting my way up an escalator that only goes down. And no matter how fast or how hard I run to try to reach the top, I stay in the same place, sprinting, getting nowhere. But when I’m with her it doesn’t feel like I’m on that escalator. It feels as if I’m on a moving walkway, and I’m effortlessly just carried along. Like I can finally relax and take a breath and not feel the constant pressure to sprint in order to prevent hitting rock bottom.
I feel his voice in my stomach. That’s not good. Voices should stop at the ears, but sometimes- not very often at all, actually- a voice will penetrate past my ears and reverberate straight down through my body. He has one of those voices. Deep, confident, and a little bit like butter.
Don’t ask about my past,” he says firmly. “And never expect a future.” I absolutely don’t like either of those rules. They both make me want to change my mind about this arrangement and turn and run away, but instead, I’m nodding. I’m nodding because I’ll take what I can get. I’m not Tate when I’m near Miles. I’m liquid, and liquid doesn’t know how to be firm or stand up for itself. Liquid flows. That’s all I want to do with Miles.