Mess To Be Made

43

We were in bed together. Under the covers. Cuddling.

And, somehow, I was okay with it. It had to be the vodka.

Tyler had changed out of his jeans so he was in nothing but his white t-shirt and navy boxers. I insisted he take his shirt off. His response was an unamused glare.

"I don't trust you," he muttered as he crawled into bed. Once settled beside me under the sheets, I latched on to him like a lost, pathetic puppy.

"I'll be good," I whispered into his ear, and I felt his shoulder twitch, like he was suppressing a shiver. The corners of my eyes crinkled with a grin.

"No," he growled, grabbing one of my hands which had been gliding down his stomach, lower, lower, lower. He moved it back up to the center of his chest. "You won't."

I laughed, though you could hear my frustration in each wave of giggles. But I let him win this time and restrained my hands to only his upper body.

Tyler snatched the remote off my bedside table, like he'd done this one hundred times before, and I snuggled deeper into my duvet with an odd sense of satisfaction at how domesticated this all seemed.

I never thought I'd find so much comfort in the feeling. Why had I starved myself from it for so long?

I knew the answer to my own question the second it crossed my mind. I'd like to believe it was because I wasn't ready until now. And maybe I hadn't been. But that still wasn't the answer. Not really.

My answer was the boy right next to me—slightly propped up and leaning against the bedframe. Chin tucked, eyes slightly slanted as they focused on the TV atop my dresser. Sharp jaw, soft nose. Just looking at lips had mine burning, like I'd coated them with hot sauce.

He was my answer. He was the right answer for me.

But was I the wrong answer for him.

"Hey Tyler," I murmured while he began scrolling through Netflix, trying to find something for us to watch. "Can I ask you something?"

"Just did," he hummed, his lips lazy with nonchalance.

My hand resting in between his lungs slapped the spot playfully. "Be serious."

"I am," he grunted, still not giving me his full attention.

I resisted an eye roll, cut my losses, took one long, deep breath, and said, "How come you didn't text me back for two weeks. After you stayed over, and I cried and told you about my mom."

His hand on the remote froze and I watched as his eyes glazed over. Unreadable. The hazel was practically brown, illuminated by the glow of the TV screen.

"You'd said that I could talk to you. But then you just ignored me."

His hand dropped the remote into his lap as irritation seeped from into the surrounding air, blanketing us in a heaviness that had my chest caving in on itself. That's when his expression was no longer unreadable. His jaw ticked and his voice sounded like nails on a chalk board. Defensive. "You texted me one time, Allie. About homework. I hardly think that's you asking to talk."

There's the asshole. The tone of his voice and sudden shift in mood had my own words biting out. "You still could've texted me back."

"You could've texted me again," he practically growled.

"I didn't think I should have to," I shot back.

My confidence quickly turned to cowardice, though, when his head snapped to the side, his face nothing but hard angles and dark features. His lips barely moved as he spoke. "So sorry to have inconvenienced you, princess."