Page 16 of My Turn Petal
I shake my hands and stretch my neck.
I don’t want to fuck this.
I don’t want to fuck our friendship either.
I want his help.
I know I can trust him.
He’s Theo!
The best neighbor slash friend I could ask for.
Ever since Jude met Mila our time got shorter, we still see each other, but I know that he wants to spend it with his girlfriend more. And I don’t resent him for it, I’m happy that he found her—she’s his match.
Now, he has a partner who wants to set me up as well—maybe this will get them both off my back. Because as much as I love them, their match-making skills are lacking.
The nerves exit my body as I release a long puff.
How are we supposed to make it work without making it awkward?
If I’m being honest, I never felt awkward around Theo. From day one, I felt comfortable around him, and that means plenty because it takes me ages to open up to someone.
I knock three times.
He opens the door within seconds with nothing but gray sweats.
I lick my lips and swallow hard as his broad shoulders flex, pumping his puffed chest forward.
All his veins mock me with their profound sexiness.
The man is a walking sin.
My eyes trail along the tattoos adorning his clenching fist and climb up to his shoulder blade. And the new one I gave him yesterday.
The trimmed Balbo-beard commitment suits his well-structured features and his adorable nose with the pointy tip.
His whiskey-colored eyes and the yellow sprinkles that spread at the center ring of his irises study me while he waits for me to finish my embarrassing display.
Good start for not making it awkward.
Get your shit together, it’s not the first time you’ve seen him without his shirt on.
Clearing my throat, I grin softly, “Hey.”
“Hey, Frankie.” His soft throaty voice greets me as his cute crooked grin rises higher on one side of his face.
“Listen about yesterday.” I play with the rings on my fingers while I’m trying to find the word and the courage to ask what I came here for. “I processed—”
His fingers glide through his thick dark strands that flow elegantly to one side atop his head and says, “Before you decline my help, can we talk about it?”
“I want your help, if you still want to help.” I quickly dodge his comment and spew the words out.
“Oh.” He shoves both of his hands into his pockets, exposing the first lines of his deep V-cut that’s hiding underneath. “I’m surprised you do but I’m glad.”
I add, “Look, I’m being realistic. It might not work at all but I could use the help. Maybe trying a different method will work.”
I battle with my fear, my misconceptions, and my anxiety every day—what is a final ride to a dying tank?
