The Edge Of A Beg | Jamie Cook

eleven

"Lotte. Wasn't expecting you."

I blink quickly, my grip tightening over the bouquet.

Jamie wears a navy blue tee shirt that draws my eyes to his shoulders and forearms. I have to admit it makes me kind of breathless.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't dead. I guess we can't always get what we want, so take that anyway."

Handing the flowers over to Jamie, I watch the corners of his mouth slightly curling up. It's barely visible, but I notice and feel my stomach churning once more. His fingers nearly brush against mine before they retreat, his gaze on the flowers.

"What's that for?"

"That's what humans give to other sick humans, I suppose. You don't really look so sick, though."

"Doctors exist here," he looks at me like I'm an idiot, and checks in the bouquet for something.

Maybe for a card. I should have drawn a little skull or something.

"Right," Jamie murmurs, looking back for a second before turning back to me. "Why are you really here, though? The call wasn't enough? You missed me?"

Yes.

The entire scene is a brutal reminder that I'm terrible at dealing with my feelings. Even more when said feelings are so foreign and far from what I think I am.

It also violently reminds me of the last time I brought Connor chocolate and wine on a day when he was sick. He only took the latter, arguing that I was seeing him as less than a man.

The memory still burns behind my eyes and fills me with shame.

Although I'm not quite sure Jamie would tease and mock me in such a way, I know I won't be able to hold my tongue for much longer. I've repeated the apologies about twenty times in my head.

And yet, these are not the first words escaping from my mouth. I quickly glance over his shoulder at the sudden yell of football commentators and familiar laughter, and back at his eyes. They look so gleeful and innocent.

"You want me," I swallow, eyes determined. "All of this– the coffee, the looks. I know what I'm saying, and I know I'm right. If that's not hate, then surely it's... it's the opposite. I came to this conclusion."

I feel a tug at my heart for the lack of feelings on his face, his pretty face that is always so bright and expressive. His eyes are roaming over my face, taking in my distressed but serious expression without making a comment or a joke. I don't stop though, because the overflowing of feelings in my heart and the results of hours of thinking finally break down and become real.

I sound way too scientific for such a talk, I know that, but I can't imagine throwing myself at his feet and begging him to... take me. Appreciate me a little further than he already does. Being painfully honest is something I know, and I'm not going to act like someone I'm not.

We're from different worlds, but somehow I feel like he could be a part of mine.

"Whether it's sincere or you... you just want to try me for a night, I know you want me Jamie," I say, my throat tightening but my voice still emotionless. "And the truth is– I don't think I hate you either. You are indeed the reason I've been unable to sleep, not because I want to kick your ass though. It's just... something I can't figure out. Yet."

I swallow, trying to pull myself together before I can drown into his eyes. He's inched closer, and the more I look at his face, the more I notice details I've never seen before.

He always comes back to me with that gentleness as if nothing I say can shake him, as if he actually likes my bad days. I want to slap myself for being so naive, but is naïveness so bad this time?