Heart Over Mind

5. Maverick

"Yeah, I'm well aware," she answers softly before taking the cherry out of her drink to suck on it. When did I start looking at her, anyhow? And why does such a simple move make me feel like this? Heated. How embarrassing - a grown ass man being turned on by something like that.

"I don't like drinking because I don't like being sad," she continues unexpectedly. "I had one shot with those guys, and I instantly felt like I needed maybe one more shot of liquid to make my dam to break. "

She breathes, but I stop breathing. I observe her, fucking breatheless, and all, and she looks genuinely sad. Maybe even a little broken - more so than anyone her age should be, at least.

"I don't quite like flooding myself with things I hate when I'm with people I don't know"

The finality and honestly of her response catches me off guard. I guess I was right. She is broken. I don't know how much or why, but I know she is.

"You want to tell me some of the other things flooding your dam, then?" Neither of us are looking at each other anymore. I think that's because we don't need the eye contact. I wonder if eye contact is another thing that can flood her open. I could respect if it is. I know how that feels.

"You want to tell me some of yours?" she responds.

I laugh under my breath, and I can tell it makes her shudder by the way her arm vibrates against the table.

"Mine broke a hell of a long time ago. I think that's why I'm so curious to know about yours, actually. Because I need the distraction. You know? From mine?" I don't turn my head, but move my eyes so she's barely in sight. She's looking at her lap, into the drink. I think that means she likes my answer. Hell, I like my answer. It's not everyday I'm this forward or this honest about my thoughts. And even though I admit to regretting it a little, I'm still proud of myself.

"I haven't even had a drink, but I think I'm still competing with you about who's feeling shittier at this moment," I say. And then, regret saying. That was kind of an asshole thing to say, regardless of whether or not it's true. Who the hell competes with someone about who's sadder? Me, I guess.

She sighs, shoots the drink up to her lips in seconds, and downs it. I gasp. She looks at me. "I'm a lightweight. Such a lightweight, it's a little embarrassing. Give me ten minutes, and I'll tell you about every crack and break and chip so you can know who's actually the sadder one."

I press my lips into a line and stare at her fully for the first time since we've been sitting here. I nod. She nods louder. I gulp. She giggles in response.

But I don't find this funny. I actually find this fucking nerve-wracking. I didn't expect banter to turn into something that could set-off my goddamn anxiety. Then again, at least this is making me feel something.

I groan and wait for her to say something for the next five minutes. Every now and then, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, like she's disappointed this isn't the moment she feels the alcohol. I have to resist my urge to smile each time it happens. It seems like such a transparent thing to do. If I'm upset in front of someone I don't know, I work extra hard to hide my emotions, but here she is, taking a drink so she doesn't have to.

She leans on the table and lays her head between her hands. The strap of her dress slips past her shoulder, and we both look at it. Instantly. The moment it happens. She stares at it, then at me, and then at the dancefloor. I see a smirk spread across her face when she turns away from me.

Wow, she's pretty. She's looked pretty every time I've seen her, though, so I don't know why I'm all that shocked. Maybe I'm just a fucking moron. Or maybe I'm just taken back by how different she looks now than she has the other two times I've seen her. I know I won't be able to describe how even if I tried, but I have a lot of time, so I might as well try.