Maybe Not (Maybe #1.5) Read online

  “I’m sure you’ve had boyfriends who have loved you in the past.”

  She laughs a really sad laugh, and then she just sighs an even sadder sigh. “If you’re planning on asking me questions like this all night, I’d much rather you just fuck me.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand, absorbing her words like a knife to the chest. She seriously can’t be this broken. No one can be this alone, can they?

  “Have you ever loved anyone, Bridgette?”

  Silence. Complete silence until her voice shatters it like glass. “It’s hard to fall in love with assholes, Warren.”

  That’s a comment from a girl who’s been jaded way too many times. I stand up and slide the shower curtain open. She’s standing beneath the stream of water. Mascara has streaked its way down her cheeks.

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right asshole yet.”

  She immediately lets out a quick burst of laughter, along with a few tears. Her eyes are sad, and her smile is appreciative and for the first time, she’s completely bare. It’s as though she’s holding her heart out to me, begging me not to break it. The vulnerability she’s showing me right now is something I’m almost positive she’s never shown anyone else. No other man, at least.

  I step into the shower. She looks at me in shock as my clothes quickly become drenched. I take her face in my hands, and I kiss her.

  I don’t kiss her fast.

  I don’t kiss her rough.

  I don’t kiss her hard.

  I press my lips to hers with such delicacy; I want her to feel everything she’s ever deserved to feel at the hands of someone else. She deserves to feel beautiful. She deserves to feel important. She deserves to feel cared for. She deserves to feel respected. She deserves to feel like there’s at least one other person in this world who accepts her for exactly who she is.

  She deserves to know how I feel, because I feel all of those things. And maybe a little more.

  Chapter Nine

  Since that day in the shower, things have changed between us.

  Not that she had this miraculous personality shift or that she’s actually nice to me during the day. In fact, she’s still pretty damn mean to me most of the time. She also still thinks Sydney is deaf, which is almost unbelievable that the prank has gone on for this long. So I can’t even say that my excitement over pranking her has changed.

  What has changed are our nights together.

  The sex.

  It’s different now. Slower. Way more eye contact. Way more kissing. Way more buildup. Way more kissing. So much kissing, and not just on the mouth. She kisses me everywhere, and she takes her time when she does it. And she enjoys it.

  She still isn’t the type to want to cuddle afterward, and she always kicks me out of her bed before the sun comes up.

  But still, it’s different. That night in the shower tore a wall down between us. Because I know that every night when I have her in bed, she gives me a part of herself that no one else has ever seen. And that’s enough to keep me happy for a long damn time.

  I just hope today doesn’t ruin that.

  We both have the day off and that doesn’t happen very often between both of our jobs and school. I have a few errands to run and I asked her to go with me, which might be a little strange. We’ve been sleeping together for a few months now, but this is the first time we’ve ever actually done anything that didn’t involve sex.

  Which also makes me wonder if I should ask her out on a date eventually. I know she’s not a typical girl, but surely she likes some of the same things other girls do, like being taken out on dates. But she’s never hinted that she wants me to take her on one, and frankly, I’m scared to ask her. I feel like our setup is perfect for both of us and if we start throwing dates into the mix, it’ll screw it all up.

  That includes daytime dates. Like today. Like what we’re about to do.

  Shit.

  “So,” Sydney says. She’s seated on the couch next to me. I’m watching porn, naturally, because Bridgette still refuses to give me the name of the one she was in. Sydney doesn’t mind it, though. She’s focusing on her homework, oblivious to the fact that I’m kind of having a minor internal freak-out over the fact that I may or may not have just invited Bridgette on a daytime date to run errands.

  “What’s up with Bridgette?”

  I glance at Sydney and she’s still focusing on her textbook, making notes.

  “What do you mean?”

  Sydney shrugs. “She’s just so . . . mean.”

  I laugh, because it’s true. Bridgette can be awful. “She can’t help it,” I say. “She’s had a rough life.”

  “So has Ridge,” Sydney says, “but he doesn’t bite people’s heads off when they try to speak to him.”

  “That’s because Ridge is deaf. He can’t yell at people, it’s physically impossible for him.”

  Sydney looks up at me and rolls her eyes, laughing. She elbows me in the ribs, just as Bridgette walks out of her bedroom. Bridgette glares at Sydney and I hate that she still assumes there could ever be something between Sydney and me. I like her, and I think she’s cool, but I have a feeling Ridge would put a stop to that in a heartbeat.

  Which isn’t a good thing, considering Ridge has Maggie. But those are issues I don’t feel like getting involved in at the moment, because my issue is glaring right at me. “Please don’t tell me you invited your little girlfriend,” Bridgette says, shifting her eyes toward Sydney.

  Sydney is really good at this prank thing. She doesn’t even bat an eye as Bridgette talks about her. She just goes on pretending she can’t hear a word Bridgette says. I’m pretty sure Sydney has gone on this long with the prank because it’s a whole lot easier than having to actually speak to Bridgette.

  “She’s not coming,” I say, standing up. “She has plans.”

  Bridgette turns away, giving her attention to the purse she just slung over her shoulder. I walk up to her and wrap my arms around her from behind. “I’m kidding,” I whisper in her ear. “I didn’t invite anyone else to run errands with me today but you.”

  Bridgette’s hand meets my forehead, and she pushes me away from her. “I’ll stay here if you expect today to be like this.”

  I take a step back. “Like what?”

  She points at me. “You. Touching me. Kissing me. PDA. Gross.” She walks to the front door and I clutch my hand to my heart and wince at Sydney.

  “Good luck,” she mouths as I make my way to the door.

  Once we’re in my car and it’s moving away from the apartment, Bridgette finally speaks. “So where are we going first? I need to go to Walgreens before we come back.”

  “First, we go to my sister’s house, then we go to the bank, then we go to Walgreens, then we go eat lunch, then we go home.”

  Her hand flies up and she holds up a finger. “What did you just say?”

  I repeat myself. “First we go to my sister’s house, then we go to . . .”

  “Why in the hell are you taking me to your sister’s house? I don’t want to meet your sister, Warren. We aren’t that kind of couple.”

  I roll my eyes and grab the hand she’s holding up in protest. “I’m not bringing you as my girlfriend. You can stay in the damn car for all I care. I just need to drop off a package at her house.”

  This actually eases her apprehension. She relaxes into the seat and flips her hand over so that I can slide my fingers through hers. I look down at our hands and seeing them linked together on the seat between us feels like I just went further with her than the night we first had sex.

  She would have never let me hold her hand back then. Hell, she would have never let me hold her hand last month. But we’re holding hands now.

  Maybe I should ask her out on a date.

  She pulls her hand from mine and I immediately glance up at her. She’s star
ing straight at me. “You were smiling too much,” she says.

  What?

  I reach over and grab her hand again and pull it back to me. “I was smiling because I like holding your hand.”

  She yanks her hand back. “I know. That’s why I don’t want you to hold it.”

  Goddamit. She’s not winning this one.

  I reach across the seat again, swerving the car in the process. She tries to shove her hand beneath her legs so that I can’t grasp it, so I pull at her wrist instead. I release the steering wheel and reach across with both hands now, steering with my knee. “Give me your hand,” I say through clenched teeth. “I want to hold your damn hand.” I have to grab the wheel to steer us back into our lane. Once we’re no longer in danger of crashing, I slam on the brakes as I pull over to the side of the road. I throw the car in park and lock the doors so she can’t run. I know how she works.

  I lean across the seat and pry her hand away from being tucked against her chest. I grab her wrist with both hands and I pull her toward me. She’s still trying to fight me by pulling her hand away, so I release her and look her directly in the eye. “Give. Me. Your. Hand.”

  I’m not sure if I just scared her a little, but she relaxes and allows me to grab her wrist. I put her wrist in my left hand and I hold up my right hand in front of hers. “Spread your fingers.”

  She makes a fist instead.

  I pry open her fist, then force our fingers to intertwine. I hate that she’s being so resistant. She’s pissing me the hell off. All I want to do is hold her damn hand and she’s making such a big deal out of it. We’re doing everything backward in this relationship. Couples are supposed to start out holding hands and going on dates. Not us. We start out fighting, end up screwing, yet we apparently haven’t even made it to the point where we can hold hands. If things continue at this rate, we’ll probably move in together before we even go on our first date.

  I squeeze her hand until I know she can’t pull away from me. I scoot back to my seat and I put the car in drive with my left hand and then ease back onto the road.

  We drive the next several miles in silence, and she occasionally tries to ease her hand from mine, but each time she does it I squeeze a little tighter and get even more agitated with her. She’s gonna hold my damn hand whether she likes it or not.

  We hit a red light and the lack of movement outside the car and the lack of conversation inside the car shifts the mood tremendously, thickening the air with tension and . . . laughter?

  She’s laughing at me.

  Figures.

  I slowly tilt my head in her direction, giving her a sidelong glance. She’s covering her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh, but she is. She’s laughing so hard that her body is shaking.

  I have no idea what she finds so funny, but I’m not laughing with her. And as much as I want to turn away and punch the steering wheel, I can’t stop watching her. I watch the tears form at the corners of her eyes, and I watch her chest heave when she attempts to catch her breath. I watch her lick her lips as she tries to stop herself from smiling so much. I watch her run her free hand through her hair as she sighs, coming down from her fit of laughter.

  She finally looks at me. She’s no longer laughing, but the residue is still there. The smile is still on her mouth and her cheeks are still a shade pinker than normal, and her mascara is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, keeping her focus on me. “You’re insane, Warren.” She laughs again, but only for a second. The fact that I’m not smiling is making her uncomfortable.

  “Why am I insane?”

  “Because,” she says. “Who throws that big a fit over holding someone’s hand?”

  I don’t move a muscle. “You do, Bridgette.”

  The smile slowly leaves her face, because she knows I’m right. She knows that she’s the one who made a big deal out of holding hands. It was me who wanted to show her how easy it was.

  We both look down at our hands as I slowly pry my fingers away from hers and release my grip. The light turns green as I grab the steering wheel and press on the gas. “You sure do know how to make a guy feel like shit, Bridgette.”

  I give my full attention back to the road and rest my left elbow on the window. I cover my mouth with my hand, squeezing the stress out of my jaw.

  We make it three blocks.

  Three blocks is all it takes for her to do the most considerate thing she’s ever done for me since the moment I met her.

  She reaches to the steering wheel and takes my hand. She pulls it to her lap and slides her fingers between mine. She doesn’t stop there, though. Her right hand slides over the top of my hand and she strokes it. She strokes my fingers and the top of my hand and my wrist and back down to my fingers. She stares out her window the whole time, but I can feel her. I can feel her speaking to me and holding me and making love to me, all in the motion of her hands.

  And I smile the entire way to my sister’s house.

  • • •

  “Is she older or younger than you?” Bridgette asks when I turn off the ignition.

  “Ten years older.”

  We both exit the car and begin walking toward the house. I didn’t ask her to come with me, but the fact that she didn’t wait in the car is proof that another wall has been torn down between us.

  I walk up the steps, but before I knock on the door, I turn and face her. “What do you want me to introduce you as?” I ask her. “Roommate? Friend? Girlfriend?”

  She glances away and shrugs. “I don’t care, really. Just don’t make it weird.”

  I smile and knock on the door. I immediately hear tiny footsteps and squealing and things falling and shit, I forget how crazy it is over here. I probably should have warned her.

  The door swings open and my nephew, Brody, jumps up and down. “Uncle Warren!” he yells, clapping his hands. I open the screen door, set the package my mother sent for my sister on the floor and immediately swoop Brody up. “Where’s your mom?”

  He points across the living room. “In the kitchen,” he says. His hand meets my cheek and he makes me face him. “Wanna play dead?”

  I nod and set him down on the carpet. I motion for Bridgette to follow me inside, and then I fake stab Brody in the chest. He falls to the floor in a dramatic display of defeat.

  Bridgette and I both stand over him as he writhes in pain. His body convulses a few times and then his head falls limp to the carpet.

  “He dies better than any four-year-old I’ve ever seen,” I say to Bridgette.

  She nods, still staring down at him. “I’m in awe,” she says.

  “Brody!” my sister yells from the kitchen. “Is that Warren?”

  I begin walking in the direction of the kitchen and Bridgette follows me. When I round the corner, Whitney has Conner on her hip and she’s stirring something on the stove with her other arm.

  “Brody’s dead, but yeah, it’s me,” I say to her.

  As soon as Whitney glances at me, cries come from the baby monitor next to the stove. She sighs, exasperated, and motions for me to come to the stove. I walk over to her and take the spoon from her hands. “It has to be stirred for at least another minute, then remove the burner from the pan.”

  “You mean remove the pan from the burner?”

  “Whatever,” she says. She pulls Conner off her hip and walks toward Bridgette. “Here, hold Conner. I’ll be right back.”

  Bridgette instinctively holds out her hands and my sister shoves Conner at her. Bridgette’s arms are outstretched, as far from her body as she can get them. She’s holding Conner under his armpits, staring at me wide-eyed.

  “What do I do with it?” she whispers. Her eyes are filled with terror.

  “Have you never held a kid before?” I ask in disbelief. Bridgette immediately shakes her head.

  “I don’t know any k
ids.”

  “Me a kid,” Conner says.

  Bridgette gasps and looks at Conner, who is staring right back at her with just as much terror and fascination. “It talked!” she exclaims. “Oh, my God, you talked!”

  Conner grins.

  “Say cat,” Bridgette says.

  “Cat,” Conner repeats.

  She laughs nervously, but is still holding him like he’s a dirty towel. I remove the pot from the burner and turn it off, then walk over to her. “Conner’s the easy one,” I tell her. “Here, hold him like this.” I pull him around to her hip and wrap her arm behind him, securing him against her waist. She’s trading nervous glances between Conner and me.

  “He won’t shit on me will he?”

  I laugh and Conner giggles. He slaps her chest twice and kicks his legs. “Shit on me,” he says, still laughing.

  Bridgette’s hand clamps over her mouth. “Oh, my God, he’s just like a parrot,” she says.

  “Warren!” Whitney yells from the top of the stairs.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Bridgette shakes her head and points to Conner. “But . . . but . . . this . . .” she stutters.

  I pat her on top of her head. “You’ll be fine. Just keep him alive for two minutes.” I scale the steps and Whitney is standing in the doorway to the nursery. She’s wiping her neck with a rag.

  “He pissed in my face,” she says. She looks so frazzled. I want to hug her, and I would if she weren’t covered in infant piss. She hands me the baby. “Take him downstairs while I jump in the shower, please.”

  I lift him out of her hands. “No problem.”

  She begins to head to her room, but pauses right before I make it back to the stairs. “Hey,” she says. I turn and face her. “Who’s the girl?” she signs.

  I love that she signs this, so Bridgette has no chance of hearing her ask. Having a family that is all fluent in sign language definitely comes in handy.

  “Just my roommate,” I sign back to her, shrugging it off. She smiles and walks into her room. I walk down the stairs holding the baby against my chest. I step over Brody, who is still playing dead on the floor. When I make it to the doorway in the kitchen, I pause. Bridgette has sat Conner on the kitchen island. She’s standing right in front of him so that he doesn’t fall and she’s holding up her fingers, counting with him.