Page 61 of Perfectly Complicated
At the punch bowl, David launches into a story about another parent-teacher conference gone wrong, and I nod and make “uh-huh” sounds at appropriate moments while mentally comparing him to Rourke.
David is predictable. Dependable. Harmless as a gnat.
While Rourke is reckless and dangerous. Endlessly intriguing. And makes me feel like I’m jumping out of an airplane without a parachute.
David talks about standardized testing and classroom management strategies. Rourke makes me forget my own name when he touches me. And when his eyes travel the length of me, it’s like dragging a match across my skin…
“…don’t you think?” David finishes, looking at me expectantly.
“Um, sure,” I say, having no idea what I just agreed to.
He smiles and touches my arm, and I feel…absolutely nothing. Not even a slight flutter. Just the awareness that an object brushed my arm the same way you might feel a mosquito, and it doesn’t make me want to melt into a puddle or make my heart buck against my chest like a wild horse. Not the way Rourke’s touch always does.
This is bad. Very, very bad.
I am a responsible teacher, like David. Not a yearning ball of pent-up desire for a man I should definitely not be thinking about.
David represents everything safe and sensible—and everything that would slowly kill my soul. Because I’ve discovered something about myself since my divorce: I’d rather be alone than settle for someone I don’t love. I want a man worth betting everything on because being without him feels like only half-living.
And standing here, pretending David Peterson could ever be that man, feels like the cruelest joke of all.
Because I already know who sets my blood on fire.
And it isn’t this man.
“You know what?” I say suddenly, stifling a fake yawn. “I think I should head home. Aria will be up early.”
David nods understandingly. “Of course. Let me get my coat.”
On the drive home, David rambles on about his new lesson plan on pre-algebra math concepts for fourth graders, and by the time we pull into my driveway, I’m ready to scream from boredom.
I can’t tear off my seat belt fast enough. Maybe Rourke infuriates me, but I’d rather have an infuriating man who drives me wild than a dull one who makes me feelnothing.
“I had a really nice time tonight,” he says as he walks me to the door, stopping just shy of the window where I know Rourke can see us.
“Me too,” I lie through my teeth. Tonight was a snooze fest. Like watching paint dry. All I want to do is bolt into this house where all the excitement is.
He hesitates, his eyes dropping to my lips, clearly debating whether to kiss me goodnight, and I panic. “Well, goodnight!” I add quickly, already whirling toward the door. “Thanks for the Farkle!”
I fumble for the knob, then bolt inside,throwing my back against the closed door, my heart racing like I just escaped a serial killer. Which is ridiculous, because David Peterson is about as dangerous as a golden retriever.
The house is quiet except for the soft sound of Christmas music coming from the living room, which is surprising since Rourke hates carols. I kick off my shoes and head toward the sound.
When I step into the living room, I freeze at the sight in front of me. “He didn’t.”
Oh, but he did.The entire space is filled with Christmas lights—around the ceiling, lining the windows, draped across the doorways.
It’s everything he hates and everything I love—and my heart swan-dives at the sight of it.
I cover my mouth and take it all in. “There are lights,” I murmur. “Everywhere.”
“I see you’re home early.”
I nearly jump at the sound. I whirl around to find Rourke sitting in an armchair, Aria sacked out on his shoulder.
“What happened?” he asks. “Peterson too boring?”
He’s in jeans and a soft dark gray T-shirt, his hair slightly mussed, and he’s holding my baby girl.
