Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Since all I can think about is kissing Ben until he makes me orgasm.
I cleared my throat. No one needed to know my true motivation. “Since Ben seems to be less aggressive toward everyone, I’m going to convince him to let me teach him sign language. And I hope he then learns more on his own. He’s pretty competitive, so maybe I can spark his interest.”
“How are you going to convince him to let you teach him?” Grandma Bonnie asked.
I tucked my chin to hide my grin and focused on dumping a bunch of oyster crackers into the broth. It was the only way I could get it down. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure something out.”
A lie.
I knew exactly how I was going to convince him—by taking Eve’s advice.
On Monday, with two days until Christmas, I needed to finish up my Christmas shopping. So on my way to the mall, I stopped by Ben’s house.
“Gabby, what a nice surprise,” Carmen said, opening the front door and gesturing for me to come inside.
“Hi. I have some Christmas shopping to do. I thought Ben could come with me.”
“Oh,” she gave me a nervous smile, “I’m not sure he’s out of bed yet.”
I pushed up my jacket sleeve to look at my watch. It was a quarter to noon.
Carmen shook her head. “I know. He should be up by now. I never know what his mood will be, so I usually just let him get up on his own. When I wake him, he tends to be extra grumpy.”
“Well, good thing I’m the one waking him today.” I shrugged off my jacket, hung it on the hook, and headed up the stairs.
“Good luck,” she said with a chuckle.
When I reached the top, I peeked into Tillie’s room, but she wasn’t there. I had my paperclip in my pocket, but when I tried the door handle, it was unlocked. The room was dim from the drawn shades, sans the light from his alarm clock. I softly closed the door behind me, and tiptoed toward his bed, praying I didn’t step on any Legos.
I slid into bed with him, and he jumped.
“It’s me,” I said, but he continued to back away. “It’s Gab—” I was an idiot. Why was it so easy to forget he couldn’t hear?
I guided his hand to my face and my hair, and he relaxed.
“What are you doing?” His voice was faint and raspy.
I rubbed my nose along his neck before kissing it.
“What are you doing?” he repeated.
I grinned against his skin then kissed along his jaw toward his lips.
“Gabbs, we can’t do this.” He grabbed my wrists and climbed over me to get out of bed. After plucking things from his dresser drawers, he left the room.
I threw an arm over my face and breathed slowly. What was I doing? Before the rational part of my brain could answer, Ben returned and turned on the light. He wore jeans ripped above the knee and a gray T-shirt as wrinkled as his anguished face. It was the look my parents gave me any time I disappointed them.
On a slow deflate, I stood and grabbed paper and a pen from his desk.
I need to finish my Christmas shopping. Come with me.
He shook his head while balancing on one foot to pull on his socks.
You need to finish your Christmas shopping. I’ll take you.
Ben stared at the paper with a dead expression.
It’s not about ME. It’s about YOU. Happy now?
His gaze lifted from the paper to my face, and I returned a toothy grin. As hard as he tried not to smile, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I’m skipping Christmas,” he said.
I tapped my temple and pulled my hand away with my thumb and pinkie finger pointed outward (the sign for “why”) while saying it too.
As much as my signing seemed to irritate him, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t understand what I asked. Once again, the unopened letter from me was on his desk. I made of show of ripping it into pieces before writing:
Why didn’t you write me back?
After a brief glance at the paper, he sighed and ran his hands through his hair. I told myself I wouldn’t be that person—the one who made everything about me. But what we did in his bed over Thanksgiving wasn’t just about me; it was about us.
Do you regret it?
Tension pulled at his brow as he stared at the paper. “I don’t know.”
What was that supposed to mean? We didn’t have sex. So why did he say that?
“We should just be friends.” Every word he spoke dug into my heart, exposing its fragility.
Again, I signed, “Why?”
“Because our friendship should come first.”
Ben always had a way of tripping up my thinking. I was a dreamer floating in the wind, and he was my gravity, my gentle anchor to reality. Of course, our friendship came first. Except, there was a “but” that came after that thought. I didn’t know what came after the “but,” but something did because we were friends.