Kissing Frogs

TWENTY-THREE || The End of My Sanity

           

|TWENTY-THREE|

I thought the sudden shift in feelings for Hugo would pass the way it did a couple years ago, but it only got embarrassingly worse. It was weird feeling again after Corey, and the jumpstart to my heart electrified every moment with Hugo the second it happened. It was almost overwhelming, and honestly, terrifying.

Things between us sometimes didn't just feel comfortable, they felt overtly sensual. I stopped doing things like jumping on him for hugs and kissing his cheek. Now it just felt wrong. His long meaningful looks made goosebumps appear all over. His self-deprecating humor that once made me roll my eyes now made my heart soften like butter in the microwave on HIGH.

All I wanted to do was stroke his arm and run my fingers though his hair and, you know, cuddle for eternity. I fantasized the way he would declare his love for me in scenarios beyond the realm of certain possibility. He was a farmhand and I a beautiful but untouchable European duchess. He was the softhearted pirate who taught my siren soul to love. We survived the Hunger Games together.

I'd daydreamed it all.

But for the first time in all my life, I was absolutely, positively, not going to tell him. I wasn't even hinting that I was all heart-eyes. I couldn't just freak him out like that. This was a delicate situation, okay? Even if Peter was right and Hugo was secretly harboring a crush on me, I couldn't just throw it on him now. After Corey? He'd think I was officially broken and grasping at straws.

And you know what? I was okay with it. I'd just pine after him like a normal person. That's tragic and romantic, right?

If we truly were bound by fate, then I'd done my part and finally fallen. She was more than welcome to do the rest.

I was too nervous anyway. We all have our limits.

Besides, it was the summer before our sophomore year. We were elbow deep in Italian baked goods and driving lessons. There were other things to worry about.

"I don't think I can do soccer this year," Hugo told me one late afternoon while he wiped down the countertops at The Bread Basket in preparation for closing. "He's a senior this year and probably a team captain so I'll pass, for sure."

I was refilling a napkin dispenser and smiled to myself at his refusal to call Corey out by name.

"So," I prompted. "Are you actually going to join a club or..."

"I was thinking maybe the swim team would be alright. I'm not the worst swimmer. Maybe I'll grow a bicep." He shrugged and threw the towel over his shoulder.

I paused, considering this. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a swimmer before. We're talking shoulder muscles. We're talking abs for days. Eat, sleep, swim kinda people. They live solely on spaghetti diets and Gatorade. They talk like gang members. One word: speedos.

There was no way, no way, Hugo was joining the swim team.

Taking a stack of napkins in my hand, I carefully pushed them into place and said, "Are you sure? The swim team is kind of...intense."

Again, he shrugged. "Like I said, maybe I'll grow a bicep."

Something like that was way too silly to make me blush, or so I thought. Hugo? Dripping wet? In a speedo? Biceps? I should've laughed, but all I could do was sit in God-fearing silence. This was the end. The end of my sanity.

"Really, I'm doing you a favor," he said casually, almost teasingly. "You can come to my meets and check out all the shirtless guys you want. This is my gift to you."