Page 2 of Crazy About Love (All About Love)

Somewhere someone is thinking ofTitanic.(Me in another dimension, maybe.)

“I’m pressing play now,” I tell her as I point the remote at the TV. She slumps back into the couch, sliding her legs farther across my lap. Her ass bumps against my upper thigh, and I can’t help but let my hand drop to her knee. The remote becomes slick in my palm, and I swallow hard, wondering if she’s sobered me right up or made me drunker.

It’s the season premiere, so we’ve made guesses about who’s going to die. If someone on our list gets nixed, the other has to drink. So far during the series I’ve gotten smashed in the first twenty minutes, and Theresa has made it through every episode under three shots.

When the first character bites the dust, I give a fist pump and jab my finger at the shot glass in front of her. “Drink up!”

Her face contorts into a very not-sexy and yetcompletelysexy grimace, then she grabs the shot and swigs it in one swallow. Next thing I know her leg is in my face.

“Massage,” she says.

I drop the remote, because my hand is so damn sweaty, and she sits up, bringing her face close to mine. The air gets sucked out of the room by imaginary vacuums and I can’t breathe, but I’m somehow smelling her hair and her soap and her perfume and all things Theresa, and when her fingers clasp my shoulder so she can balance while she retrieves the remote, the door in my brain whips open, and the words come out again.

“I think I might love you.”

She pauses. She pauses right there right by my face just after I say the words I shrugged off a few minutes ago. Her eyes hold mine, like they always do…and I wuss out.

“See?” I say with a laugh. “Drunk.”

A strand of her long red-brown hair falls in front of her face just as her eyebrow tilts up. She studies me long and hard, and I smile like a dimwit until she leans back and laughs with me.

“You better hope that none of my guesses are right this episode,” she says, laying the remote on her soft stomach as she settles back into the couch. “One more drink and you’ll be proposing.”

I chortle, exhaling in relief while my eyes fall to the leg that’s pushing into my palm. Oh, right. Massage.

I don’t know how the hell I pay attention to the show while I rub her calves. Theresa is smooth and soft and a little cold, but the friction between our skin warms her up after a few minutes. She used to use this really amazing scented lotion after she took showers, but now she uses a medicated kind. Sometimes her night terrors have her practically scratching her skin off in her sleep. The new lotion doesn’t smell bad—it doesn’t smell like anything—but it makes her skin feel really creamy, for lack of a better word.

My thumb presses into her leg, right by her inner knee, and she jumps at something on the TV.

“No!”She sits up and scoots to the edge of the couch, bright brown eyes locked on the screen and the horde of zombies about to take down her favorite character.

She’s beautiful. Not the character, though Hollywood would probably argue with me. I mean my best friend, with her full lips parted in shock and the rise of her shirt exposing the small of her back. Beautiful. I can’t stop thinking it. It happens every time we’re together, alone or in a group. This girl is the most gorgeous woman to ever grace the planet. And I have to act normal around her, pretend I’m not madly in love with her.

I scoot to the edge with her, forcing my eyes to the screen. Even when I’m watching the intense scene, I’m more in tune with her. The way she breathes (in….out…in…out…in-out…in-out…in-out), the way she bounces her leg (up…down…up…down…up-down…up-down…up-down), the way she digs her nails into the couch cushion (scratch…pull…pull…scratch). All of her is so much more intense than zombies chasing an unarmed actress on-screen.

“Oh…oh!” she says, voice getting louder, hand abandoning its post on the couch cushion and clutching at my sleeve. I had this character on my list, but it looks like she’s getting away.

“Oh, thank God,” Theresa sighs, shoulders relaxing and fingers loosening their hold on me. She’s made starburst prints on my shirt.

“I think I might love—” I start to say, and before the rest of my sentence can make it out, Theresa pushes a warm hand over my mouth.

“That’s it, Alec. I’m making you coffee.”

She pats my head, mussing up my already unstyled hair, then makes her way into the kitchen. I don’t even have to tell her I prefer no sugar, little bit of cream. I only had to tell her that once and she’s remembered ever since. Probably another reason why I’m in love with her—people don’t really remember Alec Tucker, but she does.

A choking cry comes from the television, and I hear Theresa cuss by the coffeemaker. “Pour me another shot,” she says as the second character on my list is devoured.

After she gets me coffee and swigs her liquor, we settle back into the couch together. She’s soft and warm and it’s like all our other nights, but it feels different somehow, and I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I’m buzzed or if it’s the fact that I’ve told her I love her three times tonight and took them all back. I’m in deep, dark, crazy, freaking love with one of my best friends and I want to say it again, but this time I want to mean it, though I’m not sure how to do that now that I’ve cried love all night.

“Hand me that blanket?” she asks, nodding to the quilt tossed over the arm of the couch. I lean up so I can get it for her, then she unfolds it and throws it over the both of us.

I could kiss her.

Maybe.

I’m not sure if I possess the ability to make a move. I’ve never done it before. Girlfriends, sure…once I knew they were into me, I was all over that. But making the first move when I’m so unsure of the outcome has never been my forte. It’s why I don’t try out for anything, even when my teachers, friends, and family all push me to audition for Broadway or big-time shows, or even the small stuff like off-off Broadway or my best friend’s low-budget movie. Putting myself out there feels like jumping into a shark-infested pool with a paper cut on my finger.

But with Theresa, I want to risk it. Because, hell, I could kiss her.

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