It had to be raining today. It just had to be.
And I just had to walk through it, without any sort of coverage, just to deliver a stupid plate of stupid biscuits. When I return home, I drop my muddied shoes by the door and trek back up the stairs to my room, running my fingers through my limp strands of hair and wishing I had a blanket to wrap myself in.
As I reach the top of the stairs, my father emerges from his room, and I stiffen, trying to edge my way around him. He stops.
"Jasper," he starts, and I turn back to face him. "You're dripping wet." It's nothing more than an observation, but it comes out as an accusation.
"Mum sent me to give the neighbours some biscuits--"
"Got to your room and dry off." He interrupts, already starting down the stairs. "We don't want a wet floor in here."
"Okay." I watch him go, then escape to the hall toilet the second he disappears from view. I peel off my jacket and avoid looking at my arms, at the cuts and bruises scarring them, then wrap myself in a towel and stare at my reflection in the mirror before me.
Beads of water trail down my cheeks and chin to drip to the cool floor beneath me. My dark hair remains stuck to my forehead, and I push it back, cringing as it sticks up in rigid spikes. I tip my head an inch to the right, watching as the me in the mirror does the same.
I wonder if Miles understood what I meant, I think suddenly. If he knows I miss him.
My head drops, my chin tucking to my chest. I miss him. I know what's happening, and I'm powerless to stop it. This has only happened once before, with a boy back in England. And that... did not end well.
It's in this moment that I realize the annoyance I often feel for him isn't annoyance at all -- it's repressed longing.
I should know by now not to fall for any guy who's nice enough to speak to me, but clearly I haven't learned that lesson just yet.
But can I really blame myself? Miles is friendly -- much friendlier than I expected -- with nice hair and pretty eyes, and...
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, letting my towel drop to cover my feet. My clothes are still damp, and my hair is still dripping, but I don't care anymore. Now, all I can think of is Miles and how I can learn to lose feelings for him.
And despite myself, I have to wonder whether he ever thinks about me.
YOU ARE READING
yours.
Romancetwo boys. two houses. two hearts. Seventeen-year-old 𝗠𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀 has a long stretch of boring, lonely summer ahead of him. So when a new boy his age moves in next door, he sees an opportunity -- for what, he doesn't quite know yet. Meanwhile, 𝗝𝗮𝘀�...
