Page 56 of Going Viral for Christmas
I meant that.
You don’t owe anyone your composure. Not to the cameras. Definitely not to the crowd. And certainly not to me.
I saw your hands shaking when you picked up the cider. I saw you twist your scarf as if it were the only thing keeping you strapped to this earth. And when someone said we looked good together, I saw you look away.
We did look good, by the way. You were autumn sunlight caught in motion. Someone I shouldn’t want this badly, but do anyway.
I wish I could make this simple.
I kissed you and I meant it. And you felt it—the undeniable magnetic pull between us.
Thefear in your eyes confirmed that. But there’s no denying you kissed me back.
I understand your trepidation with this whole thing. Fake dating. Public charades. All of it.
I’ve messed with your quiet life, but I will not be careless with it. I know how hard you’ve worked to protect it.
So here’s what I can offer:
The bigger bedroom’s yours, nonnegotiable.
Vodka in the freezer, comfort on standby.
If you want silence, I’ll shut up.
If you want noise, I’ll make it.
If you need space, I’ll give it.
But if you ever decide to let me get close, even an inch, I’ll be there.
I won’t take that lightly.
Love,
S
It’s barely past midnight when I wander into the kitchenette, shirtless, feet bare, hair mussed. I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut off, and my stomach’s grumbling.
After filling a glass with water, I grab a handful of trail mix from the bowl Camille stocked and lean against the counter, chewing and staring blankly toward the balcony.
Soft footsteps sound behind me. I crane my neck to see over my shoulder. Ava’s shuffling toward me, wearing an oversized hoodie thatI wish were mine, and fuzzy socks that barely make a sound on the tile.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head. “You?”
“Not a chance.”
Ava hovers a second, then crosses to the island stool. “I feel antsy.”
“Yeah.” I slide the trail mix bowl toward her, followed by a bottle of water. “Being fake-coupled-up is shockingly stressful. Who knew?”
She cracks a smile. A small one, but it still lights me up inside.
After a beat of awkward silence, she randomly asks, “How’d you get into writing?”
I shrug, sipping from my glass. “Grew up reading fantasy, old school stuff, Narnia, Earthsea. Got obsessed with mythology. Needed a way to channel it. Also, I was an odd kid with insomnia and too many notebooks.”
