Page 32 of If You Say So

“Pineapple!”

The room falls silent, and then a loud laugh whoops from beside me as Nate falls into a fit of laughter.

“Uh, what?” Elliott questions, her perfectly sculpted brows slanted over her squinted eyes. Her white-blonde hair is twisted into a messy bun atop her head, her pink lips pinched in confusion, the wine buzz making her cheeks glow. She looks so adorable.

The fire in my cheeks spreads as I realize everyone is staring at me, confused as hell, besides Nate. It’s easy to see he’s in on the joke and no one else is.

“I, uh, was wondering if we had any pineapple juice? I want to try some with my vodka. Just got a wicked hankering for it.”

Nate’s guffaws grow raspier, his laughs dissipating. He gasps for air, trying so hard to collect himself as he beats at his chest.

“Maybe try the pantry,” Carsen suggests as he goes back to counting his money.

Nodding, I turn on my heel and quickly make my way from the seating area and around the corner to the laundry room that doubles as a pantry. I push open the door and flip on the light, walking into the large space and clasping my hands around my neck, blowing out a harsh breath.

My heart is beating a mile a minute and I’m this fucking close to marching back out that door, grabbing Nate by his collar, and dragging him upstairs.

I can’t stand sitting so close to him, can’t stand acting like everything is normal between us. I certainly cannot fucking take this constant push and pull ofwantandangerI feel toward him.

A softthwumplands against the door, and I turn to find Nate standing at the entrance of the room.

There’s a grin on his lips. “You okay? You used the safe word.”

“No.”

The word escapes me before I really think about what I’m saying. His face contorts into concern and he stalks toward me, letting the door fall into place and click closed.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” I echo on a dry laugh. “You.”

He grabs at his chest. “Me? Why?” He frowns, and his arms drop to his sides, his hands curling into fists. “What’d I do now?”

“You…You fucking…ugh!” I groan.

“Spit it out.”

“You’re justyou!” By some miracle, I don’t yell the words, but urgency and a silent prayer for understanding are rooted in each one.

“I’m me? What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m an idiot.”

“Okay,” he says, dragging the word out in uncertainty. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

“Oh, I am, and I’m a glutton for fucking punishment.”

“How so?”

How so?This whole night is a prime example. Theonlyreason I agreed to game night was because Carsen begged me, said Elliott wanted to try something different, to have people over, and I can’t deny that girl anything.

So, I obliged, promising I’d be there with bells on, ready to party. I even told her I’d be fine with Nate being there, and at the time I meant it.

Having Mateo over at the house last weekend and then staying downstairs and eating dinner with Nate for the first time since the breakup instead of hiding in my bedroom…it all felt sofreeing, so normal.

And normal is something I really fucking miss.

Tonight was supposed to be all about getting back to normal, beingmeagain.

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