Page 88 of Jaded

“But it’s not just when I’m drinking.” Nat lifts the cigarette, maybe to give himself a pause to think. “I um . . . think about . . . you know . . . when I’m not . . .”

The meaning of the words strikes me. He thinks aboutmewhen we’re not flirting or messing around? He thinks about . . . kissing me? More?

“I meant what I said before,” I say, which maybe I shouldn’t because do I mean it? Am I really down for experimentation? What if he decides he’s not into this, into me? What if . . . “But it’s totally your choice, your call. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But do you want to know what else I think?”

His gaze lowers from the blackened sky. Green, intense, burning again. “What?”

“I think you’re going through some stuff right now. Questioning a lot of things in your life. And I think sometimes when you’re going through things, the brain . . . looks for distractions, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” His hands scrape down over his thighs. “I considered that.”

“So maybe we just gotta take it slow.” The words pain me, but I know they’re the right ones. “One day, one thing, at a time. Yeah?”

He nods, solemn, as he stubs the cigarette out. Aims the burned-out butt at a trash can. “Yeah, okay.”

“Anyway, I’ve had enough of being an emo wallflower boy for the night.” I flash him a smile. “Time for me to be my true boring self. And for you to go get Syd.”

“Drop-in tomorrow,” he says, an uncertain, quiet smile creeping across his face.

“Right.” And I decide, right then and there, that that’s my favorite of his smiles. “So let’s get some sleep.”

Chapter 21

Nat

Thenotesoftheguitar don’t soothe me.

Alone in my room, my head’s a tangled mess, so many broken pieces of my life at odds with one another—work, Ice Out, Olli. For once, the strings don’t invite my mind to wander off, to float free on a river of unbelonging. To detach from the limits of the physical world and leave my problems behind.

Instead, I spiral deeper.

Deeper into my indecision. I am rockless, anchorless, like a ship lost to the whims of the sea. What will happen if I lose my job? Could I really, truly, leave hockey behind?

As my fingers crawl deeper and deeper into the music, leaving behind the simple songs and racking through the more complicated twists and tangles of notes and chords that actually require practice, attention, my thoughts drift elsewhere.

He’s easy to think about.

The way he acts on the ice and off it are almost at odds with each other. On the ice, he moves like a fish through water. Off it, it’s like his body remembers how long it is, how very many lines and angles must be directed and controlled and contained. Or maybe it’s that what’s inside is too big to be contained by the flesh and bones on the outside.

What an odd thought.

My fingers tumble over the strings, and my mind tumbles over Olli.

Olli James.

I see him again, leaning forward, elbows to knees, the dark lines of ink just a slice on that exposed skin. A preview. A temptation or tantalization.

Something to make me want more.

Just like that kiss.

Like the press of his tongue, the tilt of his head as he offered me better access. The faint moan that slipped through his teeth—

My fingers trip on the strings. The notes crash together in a collision of off-key sounds, making me wince as reality seizes me by the throat. Why am I thinking about him? Why does my mind keep going back to him—the low purr of his laugh, the sparkle of brown eyes, the white of his teeth? That dark slice of skin, the long, corded calves sweeping past me. His rock-steady presence on the ice.

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