I see him in the hall a lot, walking with the other football players. He’s always mid-laugh or mid-sentence, mid-something with his mouth. Maybe it’s because I’m always staring at his mouth. Not that the other parts of his body aren’t doing awesome things, too. They always are. It’s just that his mouth is so…so kissable. But in order to kiss Edward Cullen, one would have to speak to Edward Cullen, and that isn’t something I’m prepared to do. What would I say? You dribbled orange juice down your chin in the café last week and I had to force myself to sit down and not lick it off? No. That’s not too creepy, Bella.
He said hi to me once. Well, not to me. To a group of us, but I was there in the group so that totally counts. I said hi back. Well, I squeaked hi back. But still, it’s something.
I think about him all the time. I imagine what it would be like if on one of those walks down the hall, he stops and pushes me up against my locker. Well, he should probably ask permission first. Or maybe not. I’m not sure how the locker part should go, but then his lips would be on my neck and all over, and his hands would be rubbing and touching, and I wouldn’t care if Mr. Molina marched over and tried to pry us apart himself. I would hold my ground. These legs are meant to be wrapped around Edward’s body.
But I think I need to say more than hi before we make-out against my locker. Or maybe just hi again. I don’t want to make it too complicated.
I don’t see him when I walk into the café that day. I head to the lunch line and because it’s pastrami day—ew—I grab a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an OJ. I wonder if he’ll have OJ, too.
As I’m about to take my seat, I hear his laugh. I’d know it anywhere, so I spin around, straw in my mouth, mid-sip. And before I realize it, I collide with something hard and tall and pretty awesome.
“Oh God, Bella, I’m so sorry,” he says and I want to squeak again because he said my name.
“Oh, um, hi,” I sputter. “I mean, I’m sorry. Clumsy. OJ.”
I want to run and hide because I’m probably the most socially inept person that ever existed. But I don’t, because he looks kind of embarrassed—awkward even.
“You have a little juice…” he says, “…right there.”
He’s turning red and he’s blushing, licking his lips and staring at my mouth. I smile because I can’t help it. I’m looking at his lips, too. And really, who needs a locker?
Thank you for being awesome.
xoxo
Love, Tracy/ciaobella27
0 comments:
Post a Comment