Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Sixty-One × Mr. Fluffypants Can't Text

Then I took one look at the restaurant full of people, had a panic attack, and went back into the restroom hallway - which is where I've been alternating between staring at different things on the walls like they're fascinating: and looking at the time on my phone.

I would text someone to tell them how much of a horrible night I've been having or how much I hate people; but as we've established, the only person I would text, is already here. And Mr. Fluffypants can't text; so, that rules him out.

I was doing fine, analyzing the dust of the picture frames and wondering when the last time they were actually cleaned, until now. Until now, when my boyfriend has shown up and will poke and prod until I've told him everything and he's calling out those girls like he's my older brother and we're on the playground.

And although I love his protective instinct - my blood-related references, a little less, I don't want him to do that. I don't want him to feel like I'm made of glass or fragile; or that he can't take me anywhere or introduce me to anyone because I'll have a panic attack or pee myself. The last part is a bit of an exaggeration; but I'd be lying if I said that I've shown him that I can fit into his world in any sense of the word.

I don't even know why he's with me. Why he hasn't broken up with me to be with someone more like him - an Instagram model, or waitress with good looks and small-town charm, or even an old fling from the past that he rekindled things with. I'm sure he could find all three of those in the span of a minute via the internet and could have them fit in better with what he needs and wants than someone like me.

Sometimes I wonder if Erik and I didn't have a past, if he would even give me a second look?

"Well, you found me." I respond, fighting with myself like I'm two elderly men at one of those old-age homes; you know, the ones where old people grow tired of being told what to do and want to live a little, and decide to form their own fight club in some random basement.

He laughs, the smell of alcohol - beer, specifically, radiating from his breath. I hope he doesn't get drunk tonight. I know that's a lot to ask and that I shouldn't care because it's New Year's Eve; and who am I to try and tell a grown man what to do? But I don't like drunk people. I don't like when people drink more than they can handle. And I don't like when they're close to me and I am then forced to deal with the aftermath of it.

Speaking from experience.

"You, okay?" He asks, affectionately kissing my shoulder before pulling me closer against him. I don't know if he means me to, but I can feel his jolly rancher. His pickle in a sickle. His sausage, unwrapped.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I answer, now getting in my head about his pressed wood. Is it because of me or some other woman? Is that the only reason he came to find me? Because he wanted to do something about it? Is that all I am to him? A convenient form of stress relief?

I don't know. I'm not usually this negative, but something about the familiarity of high school outcastism has me going down a dark and stormy memory lane. That and the fact that New Years Eve has never been something I particularly enjoyed. And the fact that I've been so anxious about coming out tonight that it feels like I'm now a melting pot on a stove, boiling over; with an absentee mother that's too busy taking care of her kids to realize her food's ready.

"Yeah?" He doesn't believe me. A sentiment confirmed when he turns me around to face him and I have to avoid eye contact because he can tell I've been crying. It looks like someone just told him his dog died. "Did something happen?" He asks, lowering his voice a little when someone passes by to use the restroom.

This is indeed where the shit goes down.

"No. Nothing happened. Everything's fine." I get the words out fast so I don't choke on them or change my mind. I don't want to cause drama. Not here. I don't want to be that couple that can't go anywhere without getting in a fight. "Just go back to your friends." Or everything I just said is a lie - or, I'm too hurt and upset that it took him over an hour to wonder where I was, that I don't care.

I go to walk away - my favorite thing to do during a fight, but he put his hands on my waist - thus removing my dramatic exit plan (leaving and then sitting on the curb for twenty minutes while I wait for an Uber). "Woah. What's that supposed to mean?" He questions, a look of hurt creeping into his eyes. I decide he looks like a clown with face paint because knowing I hurt him would hurt too much.

I don't know. Sometimes I just spiral and look for problems and issues where there are none. Maybe because I'm too boring on my own and like to feel a main character vibe, or maybe because of my buffet of mental disorders. I'm always thinking of problems, issues before and after they arise. I know it's not healthy or smart or good for our relationship (any relationship), but it's what I'm used to.

So excuse me if I have one piece of cake when I have been eating leaves all day, Susan.

"I'm sorry I didn't come looking for you sooner." He says, interrupting me before I can spout off some more hurtful and defense mechanism presenting things. "I wanted to. But I thought you were with the girls and I didn't want to be clingy." He explains, making me want to cry all over again - for a different reason. "I wanted to. I missed you. I'm sorry I didn't."

His hands on my waist, his words on my tongue when we kiss, his smell on my body when we touch; it all feels more like home than I've ever felt before.