by Sara Ney
That kiss tonight meant something to me, and I’m too afraid to mention it to him or ask if it meant anything to him. He did me a huge favor by showing up tonight and whisking me away when I didn’t want to stay at the party. It was comforting having him at my side; the conversation with Kyle didn’t last long, and that was because I wasn’t alone. He saw that I was coupled.
Kyle might be a cheating asshole, but he doesn’t like confrontation, and I am confident he’s going to leave me alone after tonight and won’t try to win me back.
I keep telling myself I want to be alone and unattached, however the shockwave that went through my body when I was kissing Roman says otherwise.
What was that? Clearly, I have been kissed before. Honestly, I’ve been kissed a lot—there was a time when I was younger when I thought physical contact meant someone loved me, so I dated a lot of guys and my lips are no stranger to that attention.
The difference being I’ve never been friends with someone first before kissing them, nor have I ever kissed a guy without their permission.
Oh Lord, what if he didn’t like it?
What if he was offended?
What if he feels violated?
All these questions race through my mind as I remove the mascara from my eyelashes, the horror of my thoughts wreaking havoc on my stomach.
Bracing my hands on the counter, I lean forward, breathing heavily. I’m going to have to say something when I go back into that bedroom, aren’t I? But what?
How am I going to apologize for taking liberties?
Ugh.
I procrastinate, applying lotion and creams and toners I wouldn’t usually use to waste time, embarrassed to go back into the bedroom with Rome. It’s also too late to go start a movie in the living room. I know Eliza and Jack will be home in a few short hours; I don’t want them to feel obligated to stay downstairs watching the television with me.
In my friend’s closet, I scrounged up a pair of cotton sleep shorts and sweatshirt; it’s appropriate night attire but somehow has me feeling naked. Over that, a thick robe. The weather is changing and it’s cold outside. My former roommate loves it chilly inside the house, so I did take a peek at the thermostat only to find it set at a chilly 66 degrees.
Brr.
Much better for snuggling, my dear.
I’m not going to address the fact that I could have gone to my own house but instead I came here—not to wait on Eliza and Jack but home with Roman.
Is it strange that I find comfort with him? That he makes me feel safe?
I don’t consider him a stranger any longer; I’ve spent enough time in his presence alone to know he is a wonderful human being who cares about his family and about me.
Impulsively, I wanted to know what his lips felt like, and I may have ruined the foundation we’ve laid.
Turning off the bathroom light, I head back down the hallway to Roman’s room. I find him flipping through the channels on his television when I walk in, fully dressed in pajamas. My eyes scan the room, noticing a pile of clothes—his jeans and what look like sweatpants and a hoodie—next to the closet door.
“Hey.” I feel self-conscious, shuffling into the room farther. There is a light on the bedside table glowing, but the room is dim, turned down for bed.
He glances up at me before his gaze flits back to the TV screen, his thumb pressing down on the remote.
“Hey.”
I have no idea what to do with myself; maybe coming here was a huge mistake. I would have been better off going home—I could have distanced myself from Roman instead of fumbling headfirst into the mistake I made tonight.
Kissing him.
Ugh, the look on his poor face.
He must hate me.
Should I sit or should I stand? Should I sit on the floor, or would that be ridiculous? I’ve already slept with him in bed, and I’ve been in the bed twice. He’s obviously expecting me to plop down beside him or he wouldn’t be on the far end…
Make a move, Lilly, you’re making things weird.
Before I sit down, I remove the robe and climb onto the bed in my borrowed pajamas, legs getting pelted by the cool air. There is no snuggle blanket anywhere, so I pull back the covers and climb underneath. The sheets are cool yet smooth, crisp white linen.
Bright.
I would bet Roman is the type of guy who washes his laundry on a regular basis, which is more than I can say for the rest of the male population on college campuses. He’s more mature than anyone I have met, male and female alike.
“Brr.” I shiver, my feet doing a little dance where no one can see them. “So cold.”
He smiles but doesn’t say anything, and my stomach falls.
I inhale a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Roman, I just want to…apologize for tonight.”
He puts down the remote control and turns to face me, his expression one of seriousness.
“You don’t have to apologize for feeling scared, Lilly.”
Scared? No. Not at all what I’m referring to.
I try again, wringing my hands under the covers. “I meant…I apologize for, um. Kissing you like that. I’m sorry if it made you feel weird—I shouldn’t have ambushed you.”
“I understand why you did it—I know it must provide a sense of security to have a new boyfriend to keep the old one away from you.”
“You think I wanted you to pretend to be my boyfriend?”
The thought gives me pause as I stare at him, blinking rapidly.
The horror! He thought I wanted him to pretend to be my boyfriend?
Huh.
It didn’t cross my mind at the moment, but now that it has—I would be able to go out to party without having to deal with Kyle sniffing around my skirt if I had a new boyfriend.
“Isn’t that the reason you kissed me?”
No. That’s not the reason I kissed him, but I’m too embarrassed to admit it; far be it from me to change his mind.
I kissed Roman for a few reasons, but pretending he was my boyfriend? Not one of them.
I kissed him because I was curious.
I kissed him because I was feeling impulsive.
I kissed him because…I felt happy having him at my side.
I did not kiss him as part of some ploy.
“Honestly, Roman, I’m just really glad you were there tonight. I was so relieved when you showed up that my entire body relaxed. That whole situation was really messed up.”
That’s true enough.
It’s not a lie, not entirely.
I know it’s a copout telling him and giving him the impression I was using him, but somehow, telling him the truth in this moment? I can’t get the words out of my mouth.
I’ve never been great at hard conversations, and this one fits that description.
Call me a wuss if you must.
Making myself more comfortable in bed, I recline on the pillow and pull the covers up while he fusses with the television, finally settling on a popular show about a family that lives in a motel. It’s a series I’ve already seen twice but never get tired of.
Rome sets the remote on his bedside table and flicks off the light, settling in beside me, putting his hands behind his head and lacing his fingers together.
I wonder what’s going through his head right now. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I know the last thing guys like to hear is What are you thinking about right now? Cliché on a Friday night?
No thanks.
My eyes drift closed, and somewhere in the house I hear the sound of other voices; Eliza and Jack must be home already. Sounds like they’re rifling through the fridge for something to eat, laughing and definitely flirting.
Eventually the television turns off—he must have had it on a timer—and now we’re lying here the same way we did the other night after returning from his parents’ house. This time, though, it’s more strange and awkward, this tension created by my own actions at the party.
Why am I letting him believe everything
about tonight was fake? Why isn’t he saying anything?
Why am I not saying anything? This misunderstanding is my fault.
I roll to my side to face him, despite the fact that it’s completely dark.
“Roman?”
“Yeah?” I notice for someone so eloquent, he says yeah a lot.
“I didn’t kiss you because I wanted you to pretend to be my boyfriend. I kissed you because…” My voice trails off. “I kissed you because I felt like it. And I’m sorry.”
“But is that what you want?”
“Is what what I want?” Wait. Did that question make sense?
“To have me there when you go out so Kyle leaves you alone?”
“It would be helpful, if I’m being honest.”
“Okay,” he says after a few beats.
“What do you mean, okay?”
“I mean okay—if you want me there when you go out then I’ll be there. You’re already doing me a solid with my parents, remember? You can come with me to my parents’ house and act like you’re my girlfriend, and we all win. Maybe it will drive home the point a little more if anyone sees you and me together going to my parents’.”
Is this him proposing a fake relationship? Not just for his mom’s sake?
Swallowing, I gather up the courage and ask, “Do you still want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”
It’s a bit odd, I’ll admit. What on earth does he need me for—all he has to do is tell his mother he’s not dating me anymore. I know she wants Roman to have a girlfriend, and the way she acted at Sunday supper definitely leaned in the direction of her wanting me to be his girlfriend. Since I didn’t do anything to make her think we weren’t dating, we decided we would continue the charade for that alone, but still…does he mean for more than just his parents? I have to admit, it gives me a bit of a thrill, but also…
If he continues to say he’s dating me, won’t that create more interrogations from his family?
“You’ll be provided with a hot meal every Sunday, remember?” he continues, sweetening the deal with promises of food.
“All I have to do is flirt with you at dinner?”
“And maybe appear in a few FaceTime chats with my mother.”
Piece of cake. “And you’ll come to parties with me?”
“Yes.”
“There has to be more to it than that. What about physical intimacy? This isn’t going to be a friends-with-benefits situation, is it?”
“No! No, it wouldn’t be friends with benefits. I mean, you helping me out is definitely a benefit, but I don’t expect you to make out with me.”
It’s telling that his mind doesn’t immediately go to sex or blow jobs or any other intimate activity—it goes straight to kissing, as if that is the most sexual thing he’s ever done.
“You can trust me not to take advantage of you,” he promises, as if I had any concerns. He’s not the type of guy to do such a thing, so it hadn’t even crossed my mind to not trust him.
Well…
…shit.
Maybe I want him to take advantage of me. Maybe Roman is the type of guy I should have been dating all along instead of the athletic, meathead type I’ve been going after most of my adult life. I’ve been a product of my environment and the things my mother thinks are important, like popularity, good looks, and being in the spotlight.
In a way, my entire being has been based on lies. I lie to my mother every single time we speak, pretending everything is fantastic when in truth, nothing is. I hate being a cheerleader and I hate being a part of the team—I love dancing, but not when it comes with conditions.
I want to do it for me.
I want to do it when I want.
I don’t want to date a football player or an athlete.
I’m sick of only seeking them out; it makes me feel like a gold-digging cleat chaser.
I want to date a nice guy who respects me, who thinks I’m funny and intelligent and isn’t concerned with how I look 100% of the time. I want to be able to wear sweatpants and sweatshirts and not do my hair or put on makeup.
I want to be the kind of person Roman would respect.
“Did you ever think of the fact that I might take advantage of you?” I say it in jest, but his reply takes me aback.
“Yeah, actually, I did think you might be taking advantage of me.”
I reach over as far as I can and flick the switch so I can look at his face. He blinks against the light as it blinds him, eyelids rapidly fluttering as his eyes adjust.
“Wait. Are you being serious right now?”
“Yes?”
“For real—are you being serious?” I laugh it off, but he’s not smiling anymore. “Stop joking around.”
“Does that actually sound like something I would be kidding about? Yes, Lilly, tonight I thought maybe you were using me to get back at your ex-boyfriend or make him jealous.”
My mouth opens, floundering. My face flushes—not from embarrassment, but from a little bit of shame? Is that what this emotion is? I’m appalled.
Disappointed.
Confused. “I don’t understand how your mind would go there.”
He pulls a face. “All the elements were there, Lilly. You texting me to come save you, your ex-boyfriend cornering you, the kiss in front of him—you’re telling me that wasn’t part of some plan?”
Save me? “Excuse me? Who around here needs saving?”
“’Kay, that didn’t come out the way I meant it, but you get what I mean. You did text me and said to save you. What else am I supposed to think?”
“Um, no.” Indignation rises in my throat. “This whole night wasn’t a twisted plan to put my ex-boyfriend in his place, and I wasn’t using you. What kind of girl do you think I am?”
Roman shrugs—shrugs!—and I want to knock him off the edge of the bed by socking him with a pillow.
Throwing back the covers, I step onto the floor, rising. “That’s your opinion of me?”
My brain floats back to earlier in the evening when he asked if I was drunk. And sure, there might have been a bit of alcohol involved, but not enough to make me forget myself.
“No, that’s not my opinion of you.” His voice is calm and rational, unlike the turmoil I’m feeling inside my gut. “All I’m saying is, think about how the whole thing looked from my point of view. Are you considering how it might have made me feel?”
“Then what is your opinion of me?”
“I think…” He speaks slowly, clearing his throat before continuing. “You’re a girl who just broke up with her boyfriend. You’ve been hurt by him and didn’t want to deal with him tonight, so you called me.”
How is he sitting there so calmly when I have suddenly become a ball of nerves?
“Kyle and I dated for four months—that’s hardly enough time to be brokenhearted. All I need him to do is leave me alone.”
“Right. And you…” He clears his throat again. “Used me to make that happen.”
“I was not using you to get back at him or make him jealous or make him go away. I just wanted you there because it’s comfortable.” I throw my hands up, discouraged. “How did this conversation go from you asking if I’d play your fake girlfriend to you telling me you thought the whole thing tonight was a lark in an attempt to make my boyfriend jealous?” Oops. “I meant my ex-boyfriend.”
“I’m not trying to turn this into an argument, Lilly. I’m simply explaining to you what was going through my mind.”
I walk out of the room without responding, bypass Eliza and Jack’s bedroom—skip saying good night—and trudge barefoot down the stairs and through the kitchen to the side door.
Crappers, it’s raining outside and I’m not wearing any—
“Lilly, where are you going?”
“Home.”
Which is really too far away to walk to.
Shit, now what?
Where are my shoes? Near the front door.
I walk blindly to the foyer, mindful of Roman traili
ng along behind me.
“Lilly, be reasonable.”
“No. I’m not in the mood.” I’m hurt and confused and embarrassed, but that’s nothing new.
I step into my dumb shoes; they’re impractical wedges and look ridiculous with these pajama shorts and the sweatshirt I’ve got on. I should probably change, but my clothes are in Eliza’s bathroom, on her floor, and the last thing I want to do is go knocking and interrupt. Or explain myself.
The whole thing is so stupid and petty.
“At least let me drive you home.”
It’s not horribly late—not even bar closing time. “I’m fine.”
Fine: /fahne/ adverb
Definition: well or healthy, not sick or injured. In an excellent manner. Satisfactory; acceptable. Also see: women’s definition of absolutely not fine.
“Are you just saying that?”
Duh. Of course I’m just saying that. I don’t want him driving me home—and I also don’t want to walk home, but here I am being unreasonable, putting my shoes on at the door with no option to return unless I want to come across as being, well—unreasonable.
Which I am.
Dammit!
I should have never started the discussion in the first place, should have let him drift off to sleep, should have lay there in the dark and kept my mouth shut.
As I’m buckling the strap of my second shoe, he places his hand on my shoulder, the warm heat making its way to my heart.
“Lilly. Don’t leave.” His voice is quiet. “Stay. Let’s go back upstairs and talk about this. Neither of us meant anything by it.”
He’s not wrong, of course. The whole conversation got away from us; I wasn’t trying to use him earlier and he knows it, and I do want to go back upstairs where it’s warm and I can snuggle in his cozy bed.
Roman is my friend.
I don’t want to fight with him, and there is no logical reason to. You’re supposed to work things out, right?
“Lilly.”
I release the shoe I intended to put on, and it drops to the cold tile floor.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
I nod, bending to unbuckle the other wedge, watching as it slides off next to its match.
