Page 40 of Because I Liked A Boy
My heart lurches. God help me, part of me wants to ask.
“In your dreams.”
“Exactly,” he murmurs as he slides down beside me. He settles in, arm wrapping tight around my waist like he belongs there.
Warmth radiates from him, steady and solid, and I let out a shaky breath. For the first time in forever, I don’t feel alone.
Lying here, wrapped in him, I can’t ignore the truth pressing in. Somewhere between the teasing and the comfort and the stupid way he makes me laugh when I’m supposed to be broken, something’s changing.
I’m starting to like this boy. This boy who’s been a pain in my arse for the last six months. This boy I swore I’d never let close.
It terrifies me. It’s not supposed to happen this fast. Not with him. Not with anyone. I don’t even know if it’s real or just my broken brain clinging to the first person who doesn’t let go.
If I let myself like him, if I let him in even a little, what happens when he leaves? What happens when he realises I’m too much, too broken, too complicated, too heavy to carry?
My chest knots tight. I can’t lose again. Not after everything. I don’t have it in me to survive another shattering.
Nobody’s ever tucked me in before. Not since I was a kid. It shouldn’t make me ache, but it does.
His arm tightens in his sleep, like he knows I’m slipping away even here in the dark, and the steady rhythm of his breathing pulls me back.
I should pull away. I should remind myself this isn’t real, that boys like him don’t stay. But the truth is, I can’t move. Not when for the first time in years my chest doesn’t feel hollow.
I shouldn’t feel safe here. I shouldn’t want this. But I do. God, I do.
Maybe I’m not ready to admit it out loud. Maybe I’ll deny it come morning. But right now, with him beside me, I can’t help the thought that sneaks in and lodges deep in my chest.
Maybe starting over doesn’t have to be so scary. Maybe it could even be with him.
Saturday looms in my head like a storm I can’t outrun. A whole day. A whole night. With him.
It should scare me away. Instead it makes something reckless unfurl in my chest, like maybe I want to risk it. Which is exactly how I end up shattered.
I don’t know if Saturday will save me or destroy me. Maybe both.
And maybe that’s what scares me most. The possibility that I want it either way.
The bell above the shop door jingles, soft and ordinary, but my chest still jolts like it might be Hunter. It never is. Just another customer.
I haven’t seen him since last night. I woke to silence, my keys waiting on the mat where he’d pushed them through the letterbox, the door locked from the outside like he couldn’t stand the thought of me being unsafe. Thoughtful. Careful. But still gone.
The empty space beside me on the bed felt like a punch. After everything he said, after the way he held me, part of me expected him to still be there. Stupid. Reckless. Disappointment pressed down heavier than the blanket, reminding me that people leave. They always do.
It’s only been hours, but already I’m replaying the weight of his arm around me, the warmth of his chest at my back. Wondering what it meant that he stayed, and what it meant that he left.
This morning, his name lit up my phone before I’d even managed to drag myself out of bed, like he was already waiting for me. I still haven’t opened the message. My phone sits face down beside the register now, heavier than the stack of hardbacks I’ve been shifting from one pile to another.
If I don’t read it, I can pretend I’m not unravelling. Pretend tonight isn’t looming like a cliff edge I’m about to step off.
My stomach twists. I’ve never been on a date before. Not a real one. Every “relationship” I’ve ever had was arranged by my father, alliances not choices. Boys who cared more about my family name than me. I never had to pick what to wear, or what to say, or what any of it meant.
Hunter is different. Infuriatingly different. He asked because he wanted me. Just me.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“Isabella?”
I jolt at the sound of my manager’s voice. Mr Whittaker stands a few feet away, holding a clipboard and watching me with that kind, knowing look that makes it impossible to lie. His grey brows lift. “You’ve been staring at that shelf for ten minutes. I think the books are straight enough.”
