Limerence: Chapter 20

This morning’s argument plays on a constant loop through my brain. The longer I’ve known him, the easier Adrian’s been to read, but I’m officially stumped. Either Adrian’s holding some grudge against Freddy that he’s not willing to share or – and this is the ridiculous part – he’s jealous.

As I said: ridiculous.

There’s been nothing to suggest that Adrian views me that way, but as someone who’s been well-acquainted with my own big, green monster these past four years, I know how to recognize one a mile away.

Maybe it’s jealousy of the non-romantic variety.

Coupled with rich kid entitlement, Adrian’s an only child who’s never had to share a thing in his life, and I’m the first real person to see the darkness that lurks beneath that charming exterior and still live to tell the tale.

His first real friend.

That word still feels so weird.

Granted, a shaky friendship, but a friendship nonetheless.

Is he worried he’s going to lose me to Freddy?

It’s not an entirely absurd possibility, and one easily remedied. Once he’s had some time to cool down, I’ll let him know there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a dance. I have zero intention of spending time with Freddy beyond Saturday night.

This is what I tell myself as I make my way to College Preparations and settle into the back as I usually do. Freddy smiles up at me from three rows down, but thankfully, doesn’t approach.

I’ll still need to find a dress for Saturday.

If I’m being honest, that is my biggest problem right now – not Adrian. The St. Benedict’s Dance is one of the most glamorous events of the year. As with most Lionswood events, everyone will be vying to for best dressed, especially amongst the girls. Couture gowns are going to flood the dance floor and I’m going to be…

Not wearing a department store dress, that’s for sure.

I know that I still have a few hundred bucks tucked away – ironically, from Freddy – for college apps, but I could put it toward this endeavor. Two hundred bucks won’t win me any awards, but it’d get me farther than the JCPenney clearance racks.

I sling my Burberry backpack over my chair and give it a once-over. I could try to sell my bag too, but…

No.

My fingers tighten almost unconsciously over the straps.

Not this.

I’m not willing to part with the first taste of luxury I’ve ever had.

Adrian enters the hall, finding a spot across the room, and doesn’t spare me a glance – so I’m guessing he’s still pissed.

Whatever. I’ll sort it out later.

Freddy throws his head back and laughs at something his friend says, and for a moment, the emotional rollercoaster of this morning glides to a stop – and excitement sparks.

For the first time in years, there’s a school event I won’t have to experience secondhand.

I’m going to the St. Benedict’s Dance.

Is this what senior year is supposed to feel like?

Dances and dates and positive experiences that make me feel like a real person, and not a ghost haunting the halls?

I glance across the room once more. To Adrian.

He’s already looking at me, onyx eyes glinting under the light, and when he catches me staring, his full lips curve into a crooked smile – no, smirk.

Unease flickers through me, but Professor Kane calls the room to attention, and I don’t ruminate on it.

He spends the next thirty minutes droning on about proper formatting, and just as my eyelids begin drooping, there’s a knock on the door. Professor Kane pauses long enough to shuffle over and open it.

My jaw drops.

And I’m not the only one.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting but it’s not see a florist walk in, carrying the biggest bouquet of red roses I’ve ever seen in my life. It must be at least two or three dozen flowers bundled together.

And that’s not all.

Right behind is another florist carrying their own comically sized bouquet of what I think are roses with overlapping petals the color of apricot.

And then a third – Jesus – holding some sort of hybrid bloom, the red petals bleeding into a white center.

The fourth florist’s roses are as dark as Adrian’s eyes.

“Holy shit,” whistles someone a row below me. “Who’s St. Benedict proposal is this?”

It’s got to be the most opulent St. Benedict proposal I’ve ever seen, and it’s happening in front of the entire senior class.

The lecture hall dissipates into awed whispers and even Professor Kane looks baffled by the grand display that’s currently interrupting his class time.

The florists traipse past the first row.

As well as the second.

And the third.

They march all the way to the back, stopping short of my seat.

I pull my knees up to my chest, leaving the aisle free and clear. “Sorry, do you need to get through?” The first florist in line doesn’t say anything or try to move past me. She just shifts the bouquet to give me an expectant look – as if I’m the one who’s supposed to know what’s going on here.

“Poppy.”

I turn, my stomach plummeting all the way to the floorboards when I come face-to-face with a grinning Adrian. My eyes dart between him and the line of florists towing a garden’s worth of roses. The room is dead silent as I ask, “What’s going on?”

Adrian’s grin only widens. “I want to take you to the St. Benedict’s Dance. Will you go with me, Poppy?”

What the hell?

For the second time this morning, I’m waiting for the room to break out in raucous laughter as someone reveals this to be a prank devised at my expense.

But one look around the room, I see that nobody’s laughing. Most of them are staring at us – at me – with an emotion I’ve become intimately familiar with at Lionswood: burning hot envy.

And they’re envious of me.

Good, is my first thought as my gaze flits from one hungry face to the next. I stand taller. You know how it feels now.

Until my eyes land on Freddy, whose devastation is sobering.

I turn back to Adrian and mutter, “What the fuck are you doing?” The florists are still standing there, arms full of roses, and waiting.

Everyone is waiting.

Adrian steps closer and takes my hand in his, his grip deceptively tender.

“Because I see you now,” he breathes so quietly I know I’m the only one who hears. “So say yes or I’ll make a scene so bad this entire room will be begging for your expulsion before the day’s over.”

I stare up at him in horror.

He’s all smiles, but his eyes tell me he means every word.

So I say yes.

***

The minute College Preparations is over, I tug Adrian into the nearest empty classroom and hiss, “Alright. Seriously. What the hell was that?”

And for someone who’s just coerced me into a date via elaborate public display, he looks entirely unconcerned as he leans against one of the bulky wooden desks, hands stuffed into his pockets.

More than unconcerned, he looks smug. Victorious. Triumphant.

“Well, if you need me to spell it out for you…” His smirk widens, and I think I may actually hate him. “It was a St. Benedict’s Proposal.”

I’ve never been particularly prone to physical violence, but I have the sudden urge to crack one of my fists into that sharp jawline of his, and see if it knocks the smirk off his face.

Afraid that impulse might get the best of me, I glare down at the hardwood and take a few deep breaths. “Yeah, I got that part. Why?”

I don’t need to be looking at him to know he’s shrugging. “Because I want to take you to the dance.”

“As a favor,” I correct. “Which you made very clear this morning, and just as I made it clear that I didn’t need you to do me any favors. So, I’m not really sure how we got from there to what just happened in class.”

He doesn’t answer, and when I meet his eyes again, his face is frustratingly unreadable.

I rub the bridge of my nose. Another deep breath. “God, you are so frustrating sometimes.”

“It’s funny. I could say the same thing about you.” It’s the sound of his chuckle, low and rich like molten chocolate, that peels my eyes from the floor.

And I still.

Because he’s looking at me.

Well, looking isn’t the right word for what he’s doing. He’s staring at me, and he’s doing it in the same way half the Lacrosse team stares at Sophie’s bare, high-heeled legs – with total shameless captivation.

There is zero subtlety as he drinks me in, his eyes lingering on my thighs, the dip of my hips, the swell of my chest – and then right on the red flush that’s beginning to creep up my neck.

I have no idea what I’ve done to warrant this kind of look, but I suddenly feel very naked. “Adrian?” His name comes out sounding just as uncertain as this moment feels.

He blinks, as if remembering we’re supposed to be having a conversation, and his expression clears. “You were right.”

“Right about what?” I clear my throat, cheeks still burning. I came into this conversation fired up, and he’s managed to throw me off-kilter with nothing more than a look.

He pushes off the desk and steps toward me. “That I didn’t see you very clearly.”

“And what exactly is it that you think you see?” I ask, skepticism dripping from my tone. Whatever it is, it’s not friendly support. Or the ability to mind his business.

I’m not expecting him to close the distance, leaving no more than a foot of breathing room between us. “I see how it’s supposed to be,” he murmurs, staring down at me like I’m an equation he’s finally solved. “I’ve been feeling odd things. You’ve been making me feel odd things.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I think you’re going to need to elaborate.”

“I was going to kill you, you know,” he says, “That night I invited you to my party and walked in on you reading Mickey’s journal, I thought I’d need to kill you. You’d already proven yourself to be a headache, and once you found the proof, I didn’t want any loose ends.”

The realization doesn’t scare me. It’s nothing I didn’t already know, and that night feels like a lifetime ago right now.

“But then you started talking.” The side of his mouth quirks up, his eyes softening. “And you were honest. Terrified but honest.” His thumb grazes the dusting of freckles under my eye. “I liked the combination on you. Quite a lot. And I couldn’t help myself. I was interested. I wanted to poke and prod at you. See what you’d do next.”

My eyes narrow. “I remember.”

“I kept waiting for the interest to die out. I kept waiting to tire of you, but the time we spent together over break…” I take a sharp inhale as his gaze flits over the dusting of freckles on my nose and down to my mouth, his meaning clear: our fucked up friendship has intoxicated him as much as it’s intoxicated me.

I just can’t believe he’s admitting it.

“I assumed my growing interest was because I’d never had a friend before,” he confesses. “It wasn’t until this morning that I realized I’d misread our situation entirely.”

My forehead creases. “What do you mean?”

“It was that pathetic display at your locker.” His face suddenly darkens, every ounce of softness disappearing. “You pulled out that pitiful little rose, and you had all this stunned excitement on your face. For him. For someone else.”

My breath catches. “Adrian –”

His jaw ticks. “It was fucking revolting.”

My heart sputters at the sheer amount of vitriol in his voice, but I don’t say a word. I don’t know what to say.

“And I’ll admit,” he goes on. “I still didn’t get it. I couldn’t figure out why I was so angry – only that I was. And that I couldn’t handle the thought of you being anywhere near Freddy Rook.” His jaw relaxes. “And then we talked before second period. And I realized you were right. I haven’t seen you very clearly, but I do now. I see you – us – for what we are.”

There’s a lump the size of Texas lodged in my throat, but even so, I manage a very quiet, “And what are we?”

He can’t be saying what I think he’s trying to say.

He’s not. He can’t.

His gaze keeps me rooted to the spot. “I like you, sweetheart. I like you a lot. We’re not friends. We’re going to be more than that.”

I know my eyes must be the size of dinner plates right now. “You say that like you’ve already decided it.”

There’s not an ounce of uncertainty in his voice or his face. “Because I have. I like you. I’m interested in you, and I want to explore that interest.”

There’s a long beat of silence that stretches between us.

And then I laugh.

The chuckle that bubbles out of me is – what did he call it? – nothing short of nervous laughter. “No, no, no. This is…you’re misinterpreting your feelings for me. You said it yourself. You’ve never had a friend before, and maybe you’re worried that…” I pause just short of saying Freddy’s name. “I just don’t think you’re thinking very clearly.”

He doesn’t look the least bit surprised by my outburst as he takes one more step toward me, close enough that I have to crane my neck upwards to make eye-contact.

“Well, you’re right on one account. I’m not thinking very clearly,” he huffs, his voice thick with frustration. “Which is the problem. I’m always thinking clearly. I don’t worry. I don’t get emotional. I am always in control. Of everything. Except when it comes to you. You do this to me.”

I swallow. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Trust me. You are.” He scoffs. “I figured out a long time ago that I don’t feel things to the extent most people do. My world is muted – and the things I do feel are easy enough to ignore. But around you, everything is…amplified.”

I shake my head. “You don’t know that it’s me –”

“Please,” he cuts me off sharply. “This morning, when you looked at him, it took every ounce of my self-control to avoid walking over to Freddy Rook and bashing his skull in till he was no longer worth looking at. You do this to me.”

That admission should, at the very least, terrify me – which is why I have no explanation for the flash of heat that lights in my lower belly.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My stomach a knotted mess, I attempt to move on. “So, you have an interest. In me. Like a…romantic interest?” The word feels foreign on my tongue.

“Yes,” he answers easily. “To what extent I don’t know yet. This is new to me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” A hand reaches out to graze my the apple of my cheek, and for a moment, I soak in his gentle touch before reality chills me to the bone.

This is insane.

I step back, out of his reach, and he lets me. “You do realize that exploring a romantic interest takes two, don’t you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Obviously. That’s why I’m letting you know how I feel.”

“Well, you haven’t asked how I feel. You may have spontaneously decided you’re into me –” The realization sounds even crazier coming from my mouth than it does his. “But I can’t say the same.”

The shadow of a crooked grin darkens his face. “You can’t?”

I inhale sharply. “No. I’m just not interested in you like that.” For a moment, the absurdity of this moment strikes me: I’m trying to friend zone Adrian Ellis.

A downright predatory gleam sparks in his eyes. “Is that so?”

I cross my arms over my chest and straighten up – not that it keeps me from having to tilt my chin up any less. “It’s true. I don’t like you. Not like that.”

His grin becomes full-fledged, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “I don’t believe you. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

My eyes momentarily widen.

He has?

My cheeks heat. How many times has he caught me stealing a quick glance or a lingering peek?

I stifle the urge to fidget while I recite the same logic I’ve been using on myself for weeks now. “I look at you the same way everyone looks at you. I mean, yes, I’m attracted to you. I’m human. I have eyes. But you and me –”

“Could be perfect together,” he cuts in.

“Till you decide we’re not,” I snap back. “The stakes are high. For me more than you. And I’m not entirely convinced you won’t decide I look better six-feet-under than on your arm the first time I piss you off.”

I’m bolder than I intend to be, but it’s true. It’s not attraction or chemistry or even our glaring social-class differences that hold me back from pursuing whatever interest Adrian seems to have. In fact, a part of me – perhaps larger than it should be – is secretly thrilled that Adrian is drawn to me.

But I don’t want to end up dead.

“I have no intention of killing you,” he says with an eye-roll.

“Right now.”

He shoots me an unimpressed look. “I have caught you rifling through my things and discovering my darkest secrets twice now. If I didn’t kill you then, I don’t think you need to worry about a disagreement over dinner plans setting me off.” And then, more softly, he adds, “You don’t need to be nervous.”

I can already feel my resolve weakening, so I switch gears quickly. “What you did in class earlier…you forced my hand. You could’ve waited. You could’ve pulled me aside any other time and pleaded your case, but you chose to make a spectacle in front of everyone.”

I leave out the part where I – momentarily – liked the spectacle and the attention and all the envious stares because he doesn’t need to know that.

His mouth curls up, no shame or guilt to be found. “Well, I never said I was a saint. Or above blackmail. You should get used to it.”

“Should I?”

“Yes.” There’s no room for argument in his tone. “You’re mine now.”

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” I reply sarcastically. “A relationship built on a foundation of blackmail and secrets.”

He shrugs, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Well, I think you’ll find there are a lot of benefits to being mine, too.”

I can’t tell if it’s affection or possession shining in his eyes – or which of the two is making my stomach flip-flop like a pancake.

I just know this has the potential to end very,very badly.