Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Twenty One

As always, most of my introspection arrives just in time for bed. It's almost inevitable by now. I tuck myself in, close my eyes, and all my frazzled thoughts, which were previously patiently waiting in an orderly queue, suddenly rush towards the door to my brain. Like over-enthusiastic Black Friday customers, they push and shove, tumbling over each other to get inside. They're not looking for bargains, though; they just want to speak to the manager.

"He bought you that bracelet. What does that mean?" One particularly loud voice clamours, echoing inside my head.

Another: "He really does have the loveliest eyes, doesn't he? They're so nice and chocolate-y . . . You could eat them!" Weird.

"Remember how you felt when he said you looked perfect?"

"Remember how it felt when he was inside you?"

And then there's a chorus, chanting together, volume increasing as it repeats three words on a loop. "You like him. You like him. You like him!"

I can't lie to myself anymore. Can't deny the fact that I have feelings for Lewis Sheridan. He's been digging himself into my heart gradually, apparently one sarcastic comment at a time, for several years now. Scattering seeds that are finally starting to flower. It seems the time we've been spending alone together has been the life force they required to grow.

And I don't know what the hell to do about it.

Do I actually want to be with him? Could it even work? Sure, there have been moments where the spark is definitely present; sometimes, that spark has even ignited (case in point: last night!). But do I want to keep that fire burning? Does he?

I cast my mind back to earlier today: the point where he handed me the bracelet. The expression on his face - vulnerable, slightly shy . . . But open. Eager. I'd mumbled something incomprehensible and hurriedly reached for my ice cream to prevent my mouth from giving anything further away. He hadn't pushed further; I think he sensed he didn't need to. That it was just a waiting game now. And the next move is down to me.

After we ate, we found loungers on the beach at Agia Pelagia and sat side by side, studying our respective books as if they were reading material for an important upcoming exam. I would be failing that imaginary test for sure as I didn't take in a word of the text. I suspect the same could be said for Lewis. Any conversation exchanged between us was light on the surface but loaded underneath. The eye contact: tentative and infrequent, but thrilling.

My move. It's terrifying.

Rather than just living in the moment and taking my turn, I'm overanalysing everything - considering the repercussions, thinking several steps ahead. This particular game isn't fun . . . Because it's life, and it's complicated, and the rules never quite seem to align properly.

Not really sure what I'm doing, I push the door to the bedroom open and tiptoe down the steps towards the Lewis-shaped lump on the couch. He's half tangled in a sheet, one arm flung across his face, concealing it from view. His abs, however, are fully on show, and my eyes are very much enjoying that show. I draw my gaze downwards, and I briefly wonder if he is sleeping naked. But I have a feeling he'll have boxers on at least - which is disappointing and yet sweet all at once.

Still fast asleep, a small moan emerges from his mouth, and I suddenly realise he must be mid-dream. Maybe it's his turn to have a sex dream? I smirk, a glimmer of my old anti-Lewis self returning: wouldn't it be good to have that to hold over him?

"No!" His voice is plaintive, and at first, I think he's replying to my inner thoughts, but then I realise he's still unconscious. He turns slightly, his hand falling away from his face, and his expression is pained. It wasn't a moan, I deduce. It was a whimper. His cheeks are wet.