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By: Jess
“Don’t be boring,” she taunted, pulling him up when he hesitated, wrapping one arm loosely around his neck as her hips moved in time with the beats from the song. “We’re too young to be boring.” “This is stupid,” he whined, despite giving in, not having been able to refuse since the instant that she had grabbed a hold of his hand as she swayed to and fro in tune to the music. He could never say no to her when she did things like that, when she was spontaneous, free-spirited. When she did things that made him smile. It was just…her. And that was the draw. So he gave in. Her laughter reverberated against his chest as the music went on and they were dancing around crazily, like two drunken fools. Then again, they were. Completely and utterly wasted, the pair of them. He moved forward again, in time with the beat, and her smile radiated up at him. And the ache began, as it always did. Deep in his chest, it hurt. The feeling hadn’t dulled as time went on; instead it had only gotten worse. And he hated it. Hated how he let it slide. Hated how he’d ignored it had happened. Hated that she did. He hated to love her. And hated to pretend that he didn’t. Truth be told in his heart and through his eyes, he hadn’t wanted it to happen, but it did. He had fallen in love with her, hopelessly. Drunk, he could admit it to himself that he still was. That’s why his hold on her tightened, as the music quieted, lulled, and eventually faded away. And why it didn’t lessen when she gazed up at him questioningly. “Songs over.” “I know,” he said quietly. “Then why aren’t you letting me go?” “I can’t.” “You’re being silly.” Honesty poured out of him. “I really can’t. But you can.” Familiarity seeped into the air, something they had sidestepped once before, twice before. “How can you do it?” “Do what?” Clarity seeped through him, courage in the buzz, in the knowledge that they were inebriated with alcohol, and all bets were off. “Pretend there isn’t anything there when we both know there is.” Glassy eyes turned upwards meeting his own. And he felt her fingers curl against his shoulder, as the situation unraveled in this drunken haze, her mind awakening, déjà vu written all over it. Later, he would remember the three words that left her lips slowly, softly, slurred, but seemingly conscientious in all the ways that counted, as the palm of her right hand glided up his shirt, and as her left guided his head down towards her before she kissed him. “Love or lust?”
Part
Ten: The Confession
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