Page 37 of Regretting You

I normally wouldn’t be this affectionate with him in public, but we’re the only ones out here. For a food truck that makes such amazing sandwiches, I’m surprised it’s not busier than it is.

Miller finally pulls away from me and glances at the camera. “We should stop. You’re underage, and I could get arrested if this turns into a porno.”

I love how much he makes me laugh when I don’t feel like laughing.

Before we left the food truck, Miller ordered his gramps a sandwich. He hands it to him when we walk into the living room.

“Is this what I think it is?” Gramps asks.

“One and only.”

The grin on Gramps’s face makes me smile. “I ever tell you you’re my favorite grandson?”

“I’m your only grandson,” Miller says. He takes his grandpa’s glass and walks it to the kitchen to refill it.

“That’s why you’re inheriting everything I own,” Gramps says.

Miller laughs. “A lot of air, apparently.”

Gramps turns to me. “Clara, right?” He’s unwrapping his sandwich. I take a seat in one of the green chairs and nod.

“I ever tell you about the time Miller was fifteen and we were at the school—” A hand comes around Gramps’s chair and rips his sandwich away. Gramps looks down at his empty hand. “What the hell?” Gramps says to Miller.

Miller takes a seat in the other green chair, holding his grandpa’s food hostage. “Promise me you won’t repeat that story, and I’ll give you back your sandwich.”

“Come on, Miller.” I groan. “This is twice you’ve stopped me from hearing it.”

Gramps looks at me apologetically. “Sorry, Clara. I would tell you, but have you ever had a Mac?”

I nod in understanding. “It’s okay. One of these days I’ll come over when Miller isn’t here so you can finish telling me.”

Miller hands Gramps back his sandwich. “Clara and I have a project to work on. We’ll be in my room.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Gramps says. “I was seventeen once.”

“I’m not lying,” Miller says. “We really do have to work on a project.”

“Whatever you say.”

Miller rolls his eyes as he pushes out of the chair. He grabs my hand and pulls me up. “I apologize on behalf of my grandpa.”

“Why? You’re lying to him. We don’t have a project to work on.”

Miller rolls his head. “Yes, we do .” He looks at his grandpa disapprovingly. “You two aren’t allowed to hang out anymore. You’re too much alike.”

Gramps smiles at me as we leave the living room. When we walk down the hallway, I glance into their bathroom. Miller sees my pause. There are multiple pill bottles lined up on the counter, and the reminder that his grandpa is sick makes my stomach twist into a knot.

Once we’re in Miller’s bedroom, he can tell my mood has shifted. “Thinking about Gramps?”

I nod.

“Yeah. Sucks. Bad.” He kicks off his shoes and lies down in the middle of the bed, patting the mattress next to him. I kick off my shoes and crawl in, tucking myself to his side, draping my arm over him.

“How’d the doctor visit go today?”

He pushes back my hair, running his fingers all the way to the ends.

“We talked about what to expect over the next few months. It’s not really safe for him to be here alone while I’m in school, so they’re putting him on hospice soon.

Once he’s on hospice, an aide will be here with him most of the time, so that’s a relief. I won’t have to drop out of school.”

I sit up on my elbow. “Was that really your only option?”

“Yeah. My mother died when I was ten, and he’s her father. I have an uncle who lives in California, but he’s not much help from there. Other relatives stop by a lot. Make sure we have what we need. But I’ve lived with him since I was ten, so most of the responsibility falls on my shoulders.”

I had no idea his mother passed away. “I’m so sorry.” I shake my head. “That’s a lot of pressure for someone your age.”

Miller rests a hand on my cheek. “You’re only sixteen and look what you’ve been through. Life doesn’t play favorites.” He pulls my head to his chest. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s talk about something else.”

He smells good. Like lemon this time. “When’s your birthday?” I ask.

“December fifteenth.” He pauses. “Yours is next week, right?”

I nod, but I’d like to forget. With my birthday comes the traditional birthday dinner, but this will be the first one without my dad and Aunt Jenny. I don’t want to think about it, so I change the subject. “What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have one. I like all of them except orange.”

“Really? I like orange.”

“You shouldn’t. It’s a terrible color,” he says. “What’s your least favorite color?”

“Orange.”

“You just said you like orange.”

“You made me doubt it, like maybe there’s something wrong with it that I’m not aware of.”

“There’s a lot wrong with orange,” he says. “It doesn’t even rhyme with anything.”

“Is it the color or the word you don’t like?”

“Both. I hate them both.”

“Did something in particular spark this immense hatred?”

“No. It came about naturally, I guess. Maybe I was born this way.”

“Is it a particular shade of orange you loathe?”

“I hate them all,” he says. “Every shade of orange, from mango to coral.”

I laugh. “This is the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, we’re kind of bad at this. Maybe we should just kiss.”

I pull my head from his chest and look up at him. “Hurry, because I’m starting to forget why I’m even attracted to you.”

He grins and then rolls on top of me, brushing back my hair while he smiles lazily. “Need a reminder?”

I nod. This is the most connection our bodies have ever had.

We’ve kissed standing up. We’ve kissed in his truck.

We’ve kissed sitting down. But we’ve never kissed on a bed with his body between my legs.

He rests his mouth against mine, but doesn’t kiss me.

He adjusts the pillow beneath my head; then he kicks the covers away, all while barely teasing my lips with his.

“This sure is taking a long time,” I say.

“I want you to be comfortable.” He keeps his mouth near mine and lifts my neck a little, pulling my hair out from beneath me. He piles it over my shoulder and whispers, “Ready?” against my lips.

I start to laugh, but the laugh never happens because Miller’s tongue parts my lips, and my near laugh turns into a gasp. It feels different like this—with him on top of me. Better. The kiss is nice. Slow flicks of his tongue. His fingers trailing down my arm. Mine trailing up his back.

But then I feel him begin to harden between my legs, and it both surprises me and gives me confidence.

I wrap my legs around his waist, wanting to ease the ache I’m beginning to feel there, but it only makes it worse.

His kiss deepens, and he pushes against me, forcing a moan up my throat.

He pauses the kiss for a second, as if that sound does something to him, but then he brings his mouth back to mine with an even more profound urge.

I lift the back of his shirt, wanting to feel his skin beneath my palms. I run my hands up his back until I reach the tight curves of his shoulder muscles.

Before I know it, I’m tugging at his shirt, wanting it off him.

He obliges and separates us for the three seconds it takes for him to take off his shirt and throw it on the floor.

The next few minutes don’t escalate beyond the shirt removal, but it doesn’t deescalate either. The make-out session just leaves us both aching and panting and not at all in the mood to work on our project.

Miller eventually rolls off of me, onto his side, with his mouth still on mine. We kiss like that for a minute—it’s not as exciting, but I think that’s the point. He’s trying to slow down something I don’t think he intended to start.

His eyes are closed when he finally stops kissing me, and then he presses his forehead to mine.

He brings his hand to my chest and rests it there, feeling my heart thumping wildly against his palm.

When he pulls away and opens his eyes, he’s smiling down at me.

“You know what else sucks about the color orange?”

I laugh. “What?”

“All the celebrities used that orange square to announce Fyre Festival. And look how that turned out.”

“You’re right. Orange is the worst.”

He falls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. It’s quiet for a moment, and my heart is still racing.

“Did you want me to stop?” he asks.

“Stop what?”

“Making out with you.”

I shrug. “Not really. I was enjoying it.”

“I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to move too fast, but I really wanted to take off your shirt. Not your bra. Just your shirt.”

“I’m cool with that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Is your bra orange?”

“No, it’s white.”

“Good.” He rolls back on top of me and starts kissing me again.

Suffice it to say, we don’t get anything done on the project, but he also stays true to his word and doesn’t even attempt to remove my bra.