Page 37 of Presley's Christmas Catch
Talking is easierSunday and Monday nights via text as we make the arrangements for the book signing. The flight is about five hours, and book sales at the little bookstore where it will bereleasing start at noon. Brock and I both agreed that an hour early should be plenty to get the tickets to the gathering, but with the time difference, it means our flight is taking off at one a.m.
Brock has made all the travel arrangements, not giving me many details other than he’ll pick me up at my apartment, and that our ride from Teterboro Airport to the bookstore in Queens is taken care of. He won’t let me chip in any money for it either.
You bought the tickets, he texted when I argued about it. Those were cheap compared to everything he’s arranging.
I got a couple hours of sleep but I don’t know if that’s better considering I’m loopy enough to forget I have to be just-friend Presley now, and I cry, “Oh, I love you,” when he hands me a coffee cup. Then I widen my eyes. “I was talking to the coffee,” I say quickly.
“Gingerbread latte,” he says.
I press my lips together before I again confess my love for him and can’t cover it up. “You are awesome.” I pat him on the shoulder like I did at the game. His warmth spreads across my hand, shooting straight up my arm and to my heart. I can be his friend. I can.I can. This will be my mantra, and I will ignore any such warmth that touching him creates.
“You’re welcome.” He steps into the apartment and puts his hands in his pockets. He stays just a few steps inside. It’s only the third time he’s been here, but the other two times he made himself comfortable on the couch pretty much right away.
“You ready?” he asks.
I grab my travel bag from the floor by the couch. I’m bringing the collector’s book Aunt Shannon got for me. If we get to meet Gideon Thornridge today, I’m going to try asking him about the book. He’s signed so few books, there’s a chance he’ll remember my aunt. I also have a small blanket tucked inside my bag, since planes are always cold. I’m wearing my stretchy, super comfy wide-leg jeans and my Straight Outta Eldraeth hoodie. (The fan merch you can find in the forum is seriouslytop notch.) I grab my coat, sit down to pull on my tennis shoes, then pop back up.
“Ready.”
“Nice hoodie,” Brock says with a smirk. He shifts back his black jacket to reveal a t-shirt that says, “Plot twist:I’mthe Obsidian Queen.”
I snort with laughter. “So perfect.”
His smirk widens to a grin. “I know.” For a tiny moment everything is the same as it always was between us, and I almost sigh with contentment. I get ahold of myself so I don’t ruin this small piece of us and pick up my coffee from the side table to head downstairs.
An SUV idles next to the curb with a driver waiting for us. I look over at Brock, one eyebrow raised at this flex.
“Easier than parking a car,” he grunts and opens the door for me.
“Not complaining.” I slip in and across the seat, and then realize we have to take such a large vehicle because Brock literally couldn’t fold himself into anything smaller. His head is almost brushing the ceiling, and his knees are pulled uncomfortably close to him. And listen, it’s by no doing of mine that despite me sitting in the normal place one would behind the driver, my arm is brushing Brock’s. He just takes up that much space. He’s huge, and I rarely notice it except in moments like this.
“You should’ve sat in front,” I say to him. “More leg room.”
“This is fine.” He shrugs, and our arms brush again.
Be cool, Presley. The electricity enveloping my whole body from that one brush is not a big deal. I look out the window and sip the delicious latte he brought me.
“Where’s your coffee?” I ask when I realize he’s not holding a cup.
“I don’t drink caffeine.” He pulls a water bottle from the backpack at his feet.
“Goodie-goodie.”
He bursts into laughter. “This is a fine-tuned machine, Pres,” he says, ever-so-seriously.
It is averyfinetuned machine. To cover for the way I was checking him out, I reach across him and grab his backpack, pulling it over to rest on my side.
“I have plenty of room for this.” I take another sip of my latte and stare ahead.
Brock shifts and then moves his arm across the top of the seat, but he makes sure he’s not touching me with any part of his arm. “Sorry,” he says, and something passes between us. An admission that he knows how this looks, and he feels bad he’s initiating it when he was so worried about leading me on. “It’s just a really small car.”
That comment is what makes everything okay because the lightness to our conversation is real. “It’s not a small car at all, Brock,” I say. “It’s an Escalade. It’s one of the biggest SUVs out there.”
“It feels small.” He shifts again, trying unsuccessfully to sit further onto his side.
In that moment, we could be riding in a tiny, two-door clown car and it wouldn’t be any more suffocating than the way it feels right now. The space in here is packed full of the feelings for him I shouldn’t have and the weight of his rejection.
“We could be riding in a Humvee and you’d be cramped.” I lean my head against my window. How isn’t the presence of us in this car pressing in on Brock the way it is on me? It would be much easier if I could scoot close to him and nestle underneath his arm. Close my eyes and fall asleep against him.
