Page 7 of The First Kind of Love
“He said he loved me, Mom. But clearly not enough.”
“Don’t let him ruin other people for you, Shiloh. If you don’t make time for love, you’re never going to find it.”
In the moment, I imagine what it would feel like to be wrapped up in Fulton’s arms somewhere far, far away from the mundaneness of my less-than-extraordinary life. What it would feel like to bekissedby him.
“Right now, I don’t have any extra time,” I insist.
My mother—love’s number one supporter, having been happily married to my father for thirty years—just smiles at me knowingly. In fact, her optimism is nauseating.
“Sure you do. Your dad and I just gave you three weeks off.”
3
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME
FULTON
Iknew I was bad at flirting, but I didn’t think I was handshake bad. Judging by how poorly that interaction went, I can kiss the fantasy of skipping into the sunset with Shiloh goodbye. I freaked her out. Not only that, but I stood outside of her work like a stalker just to talk to her again. Normal people don’t do that!
Asking her out on a date is one thing, but asking her to fly to another country to stay with me for three weeks? Hell, if I was her, I’d probably be changing my phone number and deadbolting my doors. This is the start to everyDatelinecase, and I’m not sure why, but Shiloh seems like the kind of girl to know her fair share of Krav Maga.
“I blew it,” I groan.
Gage—who’s watching my misery unfold before him—arches a brow. “How? All you did was ask her, right?”
“Yeah, and then she looked at me like I was crazy and gave me a handshake.” I face-plant into the couch, effectively obstructing my words so my teammates won’t hear the embarrassment lodged in my throat.
“Come on, Ful. I bet it wasn’t as bad as you think,” mycaptain—Bristol—consoles, sitting down next to me and patting me on the back. Although the gesture is thoughtful, it only exacerbates my hopelessness.
Bristol’s a great guy, one of the nicest I’ve ever met. He’s the team’s built-in therapist. He pretty much has a solution for everything, and unlike the rest of my idiotic roommates, he doesn’t kick me when I’m down or laugh at my (frankly expected) female-related failures.
My lungs empty a drawn-out sigh. “I’m never stepping foot out of this house again.”
Even though my vision is impaired, I don’t have to clock the face to match the annoyingly arrogant voice that interrupts the conversation. It’s deep, thick, and has this I-know-everything drawl to it that I’ve become familiarized with too many times to count. In fact, thisexactvoice haunts me in my nightmares—usually the ones where I’m publicly humiliated or missing pertinent clothing.
“You’re a hot, twenty-something bachelor with an endless bank account. What girl in her right mind would say no to that?” Kit butts in.
Still debating the most painless way to kill myself, I roll onto my back, glance at the giant man taking up the entire doorway and reroute my gaze to the bleak ceiling above me. “Shiloh’s not like other girls,” I mutter under my breath, dejection coming to a screaming boil in the pit of my chest.
“Did you ever think that maybe she’s just as nervous as you are?” he asks.
Hayes, the soon-to-be husband, is just the salesman Idon’tneed promising me happily-ever-afters wrapped in a pretty little bow. “Yeah, a handshake isn’t always a bad thing. Maybe she just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by going in for a hug.”
Gage nods in Hayes’ direction. “Blondie has a point. You’ve got to give yourself some credit, dude. Not everywoman you meet is repulsed by you. Shit, if I was gay, I’d let you tap this.”
The whole room riots with unrestrained laughter, but I can’t even find it in myself to join in with a hollow chuckle or a fake smile. All I can think about is Shiloh…and the possibility that I’ve just ruined the chance of anything happening between us.
We had a good thing going, alright? Sure, if you asked any of the guys, they’d say that my “thing” was less of a thing and more of a—ahem—“delusional projection of my innermost desires,” but there wassomethingthere. It was like this unspoken understanding between us. A symbiotic relationship of sorts, where I’m the tiny Egyptian plover bird cleaning her teeth, and she’s the intimidating (yet nonthreatening) crocodile who protects me. I pay her in compliments, and she pays me in the priceless gift of getting to breathe the same air as her.
I slowly pull myself up into a sitting position, and Gage plops down next to me, jostling the couch and spurring the anxiety permanently residing in my gut. He’s looking at me like he’s about to deliver the news that my mother just died on the operating table and there was nothing the doctors could do to save her.
“You and what’s her name have spoken before, right?” he asks.
I sigh dreamily, feeling some of my tightly wound nervousness ebb upon remembrance. I don’t just remember the exact date I spoke to Shiloh—I remember everything she said to me.
On January ninth, she asked me if I wanted my nondairy raspberry tart heated up, and when I told her no, she said, “I feel like food tastes weird when it’s warm, you know? It gets all mushy and gross. Cold food is so much better. You don’t burn your tongue on anything, and the texture is consistent. I can’t eat hot-and-ready pizza. I have to order it a day before I actually want to eat it so I can have it cold the following day.” And myGod, was that the most insightful, thought-provoking, intelligent hot take I’ve ever heard in my entire life. She’s right, of course. There’s something about cold, day-old pizza that hits differently.
I even remember the outfit she was wearing: a burgundy sweater underneath her work apron. Red suits her. It’s one of my favorite colors on her, but she looks good in anything she wears. I don’t think it’s physically possible for her to make a piece of clothing look unappealing.
