Page 42 of The Love Playbook

I mean, I like Jackson as a person. But I’m not relationship material. I never have been, and I don’t intend to start now. My idea of a relationship is basically what most people would call a fuck buddy—a guy to have sex with on a regular basis. Maybe we’d do other things together too, but that certainly isn’t a requirement. But in no universe do I really want to end up on the road that leads to marriage and babies.

Marriages don’t last. And they’re so much harder to get out of than to get into. Say some words and sign a document in front of a judge and you’re tied to someone for life. Decide you want out of it and even the most amicable splits mean you have to pay lots of money and divide everything up.

And if it’s not …

My parents tried to keep me out of their divorce. But I was fifteen, and I paid attention. Their split was nowhere near as amicable as they tried to pretend to me. There were attorneys and inventories and lots of nights with mom spent hunched over her computer assembling documents and snapping at me from the stress of it all.

I didn’t witness as much of that from Dad, but I didn’t spend quite as much time with him, either. With him it was the false joviality, the try-too-hard vibe that killed me. He wanted so much to make it seem like it was totally normal that he moved into a crappy little two-bedroom apartment until everything was finalized and he eventually got into a nicer condo. He pointed out how nice it was that he didn’t have to worry about lawn maintenance or any of the stresses of home ownership. Which, I mean … I guess that’s a nice way to find the bright side. But as a fifteen-year-old, it didn’t seem that bright to me when I had a shoebox room with bare walls and boring bedding on the twin bed.

My dad told me I could decorate however I wanted, but his place never felt like home. It still doesn’t, really, though that try-too-hard energy has abated over the last few years.

But I have no intention of following in my parents’ footsteps. Which means I’m not the marrying kind. Usually my … unusual interests are enough to keep guys from wanting to get too serious anyway. All I have to do is offer to pull some tarot cards for them and they get a little uncomfortable. Make a whole theatrical production complete with candles and chanting and whatnot when I do it?

That’s never not worked for me. Sometimes they just ghost. Sometimes they stammer out some excuse to break it off either before they leave or the next time we speak. And sometimes they send a text. But if it gets to the point where I want to discourage their interest, I know that’s all I have to do.

With Jackson, though … I don’t want to resort to excessively theatrical rituals to scare him away. As much as I don’t want to be his girlfriend or meet his family or anything, I enjoy being his practice girlfriend. I enjoy teaching him new things. And I especially enjoy how quickly he catches on.

To be honest, I’m not sure scaring him off like that would work on him, even if I wanted to do it. He’s too practical and would probably see through the literal smoke and mirrors.

Even though Jackson left like everything was settled, I get the feeling it’s not. And I’m worried the only way for it to settle is for this thing to end.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jackson

I hang back by the food after I leave my room, busying myself with making a plate. Eli glances back at me a few times from his spot in the living room but doesn’t say anything.

When Autumn eventually emerges, she glances my direction, the expression on her face some combination of concern and … hope? I’m not sure. The concern is clear as day, though.

But the last thing I want is her concern. We’re not supposed to have feelings for each other, after all. So she shouldn’t feel concerned about anything, right?

Apparently I missed the no-feelings memo, though. And how am I supposed to not have feelings for someone who makes me feel the way she does?

Isn’t the entire basis for our “sessions,” as she calls them, about feelings? Sure, those are physical feelings.Sensationsif you really want to get wrapped up in semantics. But all those sensations sure make me have lots of feelings.

And right now those feelings aren’t great. My chest is tight, my stomach clenching to the point that I’m not sure I can eat any of the food I just put on my plate, and if I can’t relax soon, I’m probably going to grind my molars into dust. Maybe I should go get my spare mouth guard just to keep that from happening.

Ha. Everyone would think I’m nuts if I did that.

The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself. I hate that game night is going to last for hours longer, hours with Autumn right under my nose but me unable to talk to her, approach her, touch her, or do anything to relieve the pressure in my chest and the frustration causing me to grind my teeth down to nubs.

Autumn drifts into the living room, and I watch her, unable to tear my gaze away. Once her attention shifts from me, she seems to be totally fine. Not upset or torn up about the conversation we just had at all. And why would she be? She apparently doesn’t have any feelings for me.

Except she told me she likes me. Isn’t liking someone a feeling? How does that even work? She likes me enough to suck my dick but not enough to … what? Actually date me? Be more than practice? I’m not good enough to be in a relationship with?

The longer I think about it, the more frustrated I become. It’s not until I feel a strange cold sensation on my thumb that I look down and see I’ve crushed the paper plate in my hand and the dip for the veggies is oozing up to my knuckle.

Annoyed at everything, I cram the ruined plate into the garbage bag hanging off one of the drawer handles, pick my way through the crowd, and step outside.

I can’t stay. Not tonight. Not after everything that happened between Autumn and me. I need a minute. I need some air. And I need some space to get my head on straight.

Once outside, I start walking. I have no destination in mind. No route I plan to take. I just pick a random direction and let my feet carry me, my hands stuffed in my pockets.

Autumn sees herself as just practice for me.

Maybe it’s not me who’s the problem in her mind, then? Maybe it’s not that I’m unworthy of a relationship with her? Maybe she feels unworthy of one with me?

I snort at that thought. Autumn’s one of the most confident and self-assured people I know. The idea of her viewing herself as unworthy of anything she wants is laughable.

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