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Emerson
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“YEAH, YOU SHOULD WORK on calming that anger first,” Colt says.
“I’m not angry. It’s more...” I pause trying to come up with the best way to explain it.
“Self-preservation?” Colt offers.
I tilt my head to the side and study him. He is the most erratic, loud-mouthed, unfocused, no-fucks-to-give person I’ve met, yet he’s smart, insightful and sometimes full of wisdom.
“Self-preservation?” I purse my lips and nod. “Something like that I guess.”
“You won’t let anyone kiss you because that means feelings and feelings mean trust.”
My mouth drops open.
“And trusting someone,” he continues, entwining his fingers through mine once again. “Means you open yourself up to hurt. You’ve watched your father destroy your mom over the years. You’ve been victim to his psychological abuse your whole life. If you don’t kiss someone, you won’t develop feelings for them, you won’t trust them, and you won’t get hurt.” He grins and clicks his tongue like he’s solved the unsolvable.
He hits the nail on the head with that revelation. It never occurred to me that’s the reason I can’t get close to anyone except him.
“But I want to kiss someone.”
I do. I want to experience what it’s like to be held, cherished, have sweet nothings—whatever that means—whispered in my ear. I want to feel loved. I want to know what it’s like to be kissed, caressed, touched, and more...one day. More than want. I crave it. But Colt’s right, I’m too afraid of being hurt. It isn’t worth the risk.
“And I want to go train surfing, but instinct and self-preservation kick in and tell me it’s not a good idea. The subconscious is a powerful thing. Also, the fear of you castrating me puts a damper on the desire to do something reckless. I’m somewhat attached to my balls.”
I study our joint hands and think about his words. Had Jeffrey tried to hold my hand, I would have tucked them into my pockets because I don’t trust him, and I don’t want to trust him. The only boy whose hand I’ve held is Colt’s and that doesn’t count because hand-holding has become second nature with us.
The first time he held my hand I was twelve and Colt and I were convinced I was dying a horrible, painful death.
No exaggeration.
I truly thought I would die.
I’d woken up during the night to use the bathroom and discovered blood in my underwear.
I screamed.
Colt came running.
He found me on the bathroom floor hugging myself as I cried silent tears and prayed my death wouldn’t be too painful.
He sat with me, comforted me, held me to his chest and cried with me. Then when I had calmed down, he woke his dad and told him. Mr. James came rushing into the bathroom. He sat on the floor with us, smiled and said, “You’re not dying.”
Colt reached for my hand and squeezed it to his chest as I took a deep shuddering breath, too afraid to hear what Mr. James had to say. Turned out I wasn’t dying. I had gotten my period, which Mr. James assured me was normal and not life-threatening. My pathetic self-absorbed alcoholic parents had failed to teach me the basics about growing up.
Mr. James became my hero that day. He is more a father to me than the asshole who donated his sperm to the drunken incubator.
Colt became my savior. The boy I came to rely on more than I should. I trust him with my life and my first kiss. He’ll never hurt me.
“Help me?” I ask Colt after a few minutes.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not kissing you, Em.”
He’s a stubborn bastard sometimes. Not like he hasn’t kissed me before. I raise a challenging eyebrow.
Colt lifts his hands in surrender and reads my thoughts. Or he knows me too well. “That doesn’t count.”
“Does too.”
“Does not.”
“Does too.”
“Doesn’t.”
“Do—” Colt cuts me off by squeezing my mouth shut with his fingers.
“Not happening.”
I pout. Sticking my bottom lip out and giving him the puppy-dog eyes and everything. Normally the pout works and he gives me whatever I want.
“Don’t give me the eyes, Em. I’m not kissing you.”
“Why?” It’s a kiss. It isn’t hard. It means nothing. It can be a practice run for when the real thing finally happens.
“Because friends don’t kiss friends.” He nods once, finality in his tone.
“But friends play with friends’ boobs?”
“One time. That happened one time, and it was...”
“For practice. Yeah, yeah. I remember. It was only a few weeks ago. This kiss would be the same,” I plead with him. About a month ago when he was nervous about his date because Eliza was ‘experienced’ and he wasn’t, I was a good friend and let him touch my breasts, so he didn’t make a fool of himself on his date. Eliza is notorious for letting her dates get to second base in the back row of the cinemas. What sort of friend would I have been if I let Colt go into that blind, groping her chest like a rock climber trying to find purchase on a cliff face before they fell to their death?
A terrible friend.
And a terrible friend I am not. So, I let him touch my boobs. It wasn’t awful. There were tingles, a little spark of something. I wouldn’t say no to letting him do it again. But it’s time he repaid me.
“Em, I’ll do anything for you. I’ve told you that, shown you that. You say jump, I’ll jump off the tallest building in the world. But this? I can’t.” He pauses and reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair from my face. “I’m sorry.”
I cup his hand against my face and close my eyes. “It’s okay. It was a stupid idea,” I say before adding, “but I’m holding you to that ‘I’d do anything for you’ bullshit in the future. Next thing I ask, you can’t say no.”
“Deal.” Colt grins and pulls his hand from my face before jumping from the bed and crossing his room.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s our last night and Dad’s alone downstairs.”
I smile and stand, reading his thoughts. I don’t want to leave Mr. James downstairs alone either. “What are we waiting for?”