Coming Up For Air | ✓

21 | what do you want?

Stella's pissed.

If she'd been in a room full of strangers, it'd been unlikely anyone would have even noticed. After all, through the years, she's gotten the well-practiced art of acting the gracious runner-up down to a tee. But she's not in a room full of strangers; there's only Jake. And Jake knows. She can tell he knows.

It's in the way she keeps crossing her arms over her chest only to let them fall back to her sides. It's in the faint purse of her lips, her cheeks sucked in. It's in the set of her shoulders, squared, as if she'd rather stalk off in the opposite direction. Actually, for one flickering moment Jake looks as if he wants to reach out for her—as if, maybe, he's worried she is about to leave. Though, that's probably the lingering sugar-high from the milkshakes having her imagining things.

Jake's mouth twists. "Well, in my defense," He says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "You did seem kind of mad the last time we were in the same room."

 Stella draws in a sharp breath, the ache within—pounding against her ribs—only growing stronger as she's reminded of the foggy August morning, of the the patter of rain dotting the pavement they'd been stood upon.

She shakes her head, finding herself blatantly honest as she says, "I wasn't mad Jake. I was hurt."

Despite her words, he seems to relax ever so slightly as she slips out of her slingback sandals and walks over to the wide bookcase stood on the imagined threshold of the kitchen and living room. She leans her shoulder against it, flickering her eyes back out the still open sliding-door—letting them gaze over the dark shadows of the garden.

It's strange, having Jake stood here in front of her. Their phone calls were different, the long distance between them having made for a nice buffer. Everything had been fine, but now, there's no room left to suppress her feelings, nowhere to push them out of sight. She should've just squandered them while she had the chance.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices how Jake shifts on his feet—even now, despite his fidgety manner—his lips seem to rest in a small, natural, smile. "You never mentioned you've been hanging out with Jess."

"I didn't?"

"No."

Stella shrugs. "She's nice."

"She is. What did you do today?"

"Oh, we had dinner. And I helped out, outside the pier."

"Right, it's Wednesday."

"Yeah."

"So–"

Stella flickers her gaze to Jake's. "Let's not."

His lips pull back in a faint frown. "Let's not?"

"This," She gestures between them with a small sigh. "The small talk."

"Okay."

Stella runs her left index finger along one of the bookshelves, frowning as it comes away with a faint layer of dust. She stares at it for a beat, pressing her teeth together. She needs space—space to get over this foolish crush, space to go back to pretending everything's just fine, normal even. That's the only way they can, one day, resume as before. The only way they can be Wilsons and Donahues.

"I don't think you should've come," She says, a lump catching in her throat as the quickening beat of her heart protests against the words lingering at the tip of her tongue. She shakes her head. "Maybe you should just leave."

"Stells–"

She whips her head in his direction, not shying away from his gaze this time. She's not sure whether she's angry with him for being here, for doing these things to her heart or if she's angry with herself—for letting him in the first place. "Why are you here Jake?"