67 ~ Mandy! Mandy! Mandy!-3

I took a swig of my beer, the lukewarm liquid burning my throat as I swallowed but it felt good, that burn, and it made me momentarily forget that Orion was standing just inches away from me, flipping a bent bottle cap, and that his breaths were even and rested, that his pulse was probably cool and steady, and that this was it. That opening a bottle of beer to an underage girl, illegally, was the greatest thing Orion would ever do for me now, and that maybe Reese was right. Perhaps we really were doomed from the start, from the first kiss that I had pressed to his lips to this very moment, what we were crumbling into dust as I drank and he flipped that stupid bottle cap. We were really over now. “Thanks,” I muttered, bringing the bottle down from my lips, making a slight pop sound that seemed to get his attention from the bottle cap, catching it in his palm and his hazel eyes looking up and searched my countenance but I looked away from him, turning my gaze to the label glued to the glass of the bottle. I felt ashamed, heat rushing to my face as I stood there, because my voice was pinched and crackling, giving him a faint insight into the twisting ache that lingered in my chest as I stood there so close to him, and I could feel my eyes beginning to burn as I read the label. I felt even worse when I realized that I had just downed half a bottle of regular, full-calorie beer in front of him, and I felt even more exposed as I placed the bottle down on the granite surface of the countertop and tugged at the hem of my shirt that revealed the pink flesh of my waist, just waiting to store the calories into bulges of fat. He glanced down at my hands as I furiously yanked at the hem of my shirt, failing to conceal the inch and a half of waistline that suddenly embarrassed me, and as he looked at my hands, and at my waist, I felt an even greater sense of shame. I could just sense that he either thought I was too small or big, but definitely not attractive, definitely not sexy, definitely not something that he would miss. “Amanda,” he murmured after a moment, as if he suddenly realized that I was so busy trying to cover my waistline with the too-short hemline of my shirt that never reached the top of my jeans, but instead actually flew up even further when it would slip away from my fingertips like the bottle opener, revealing even more of my stomach. His voice sounded so dejected as he spoke that it made my vision blur as I still fumbled with the hem of my shirt, embarrassment forming a painful lump in my throat, and my chin quivered so much that it actually hurt trying to stifle it. I saw him swallowing, and then he crossed his arms over each other over his torso, curling his fingers under his own hemline, and for a moment, I thought he might mimic me or mock me and my humiliating attempts to hide myself, but instead he tugged and lifted it up, revealing the logo of his T-shirt underneath, CLAWS, a parody of JAWS but with a sharp-toothed cat instead, and then brought it over his head. As he slid his arms from the sleeves and then proceeded to turn it from inside out, I felt a hot tear slip from the corner of my eye as I watched him, and I realized that it felt worse now, now that he displayed so plainly that he did care for me, maybe even loved me, but that his feelings didn’t change anything but how forlorn I felt. “Here,” he said, gently, grasping the hoodie by the fabric of the hood as he outstretched his hand to me, and I caught a waft of sugar and soap emitting from him. I tentatively took it from him, careful not to touch or graze my fingers against his own when I accepted it from him, grasping it by the shoulder instead, and I fought the urge to bring the material to my nose and inhale that scent, that scent I missed so much of icing sugar, Old Spice deodorant, and frying oil. He ran a hand through his now-tousled hair as I slipped the hoodie over my body, the sleeves falling over my fingertips and the hemline neatly touching my jeans and finally covering my exposed skin, but I still felt slightly ashamed. I had only covered the calories instead of removing them. “Thank you,” I whispered, gripping the hem of the sleeves in my fingers and clutching it, tightly, and I blinked, looking down at the green fabric draped around my waist like a thick curtain. I hadn’t realized that the smooth, wet trail of my warm tear still lingered on my cheek until I felt his thumb brush against my skin, a tan flicker in the corner of my eyes as the warmth of the pad of his thumb causing my heart to thump erratically in my chest, as if it were trying to break the bars of my ribcage and be set free, or had forgotten to beat and was trying to find its way again. His eyes were gentle as he looked at me, his hand remaining on my cheek even had he had swept the tear away, and I met his eyes for that one moment as he looked down at me, the softness of the hazel looked so inviting and so searching that I felt like taking that one step closer to him and putting myself in his arms and burying my face into his chest, listening to the steady rhythmic beats of his heart, but the deep, mesmerizing spell was broken when he told me, “You can keep it.” He bit his lip, and brought his hand away from my face, as if he were in that deep, mesmerizing spell himself and was just now being pulled from it, descending back into reality. He tried to shove his hands into phantom pocket of his hoodie before realizing that it wasn’t there, and let his hands fall awkwardly to his sides. His skin looked began to blush red. “The hoodie, I mean.”