Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “I’m not explaining myself well. I had no issues talking to normal people. My issues were . . . with you.”

            I scowl. “Are you saying that I’m not normal?”

            He laughs silently. “You’re not normal. Not to me.”

            “What does that mean?” I turn in the seat to face him, not sure why he’s insulting me again, after two days of being incredibly lovely. Is he having a relapse? “Just because you thought I was ugly or unlikable, it doesn’t mean that I wasn’t normal—”

            “I never thought of you as ugly.” His hands tighten even more around the wheel. “Never.”

            “Come on. The way you always acted was—”

            “The opposite, in fact.”

            I frown. “What do you even—” Oh.

            Oh.

            Oh.

            Does he mean that—? No. Impossible. He wouldn’t. Would he? Even if we . . . He can’t possibly be implying that. Can he?

            “I—” My mind goes blank for a split second—complete, utter white-out void. I’m suddenly frozen numb, so I lean forward to turn off the AC. I have no clue how to answer him. How to stop my heart from beating out of my throat. “Do you mean that you . . . ?”

            He nods.

            “You didn’t . . . you didn’t even let me finish the sentence.”

            “Whatever you’re imagining, from the tamest to the most . . . inappropriate thoughts, that’s probably where my mind was at.” He swallows visibly. I watch his throat move. “You were always in my head. And I could never get you out.”

            I turn to the window, scarlet. There’s no universe in which I’m parsing his words correctly. This is a misunderstanding. I’m having some neurological event. And all I want to ask is, What about now? Am I still in your head? “You always stared at me like I was some obscene monstrosity.”

            “I tried not to stare, but . . . it wasn’t easy.”

            “No. No, you—the dress. You hated me in that dress. My blue dress, the one with—”

            “I know what dress, Bee.”

            “You know because you hated it,” I say in a panic.

            “I didn’t hate it.” His words are quiet. “It just took me by surprise.”

            “My Target dress took you by surprise?”

            “No, Bee. My . . . reaction to you wearing it did.”

            I shake my head. This cannot be true. “You wouldn’t even sit next to me.”

            “It was hard to think when you were close.” His voice is husky.

            “No. No! You refused to collaborate with me. You told Tim he should marry someone better, you avoided me like the bubonic plague—”

            “Tim warned me off.”

            I turn to him. “What?”

            “He asked me to back off and leave you alone.”

            “He . . .” I cover my mouth and imagine Tim, very average-sized Tim, confronting Levi, a not-so-gentle bison. “How did he . . . ?”

            “He told me you knew that I was . . . interested. That I was making you uncomfortable. That you found me unpleasant.” Levi’s throat works. “He asked me to avoid you as much as I could. And I did. In a way, it was easier.”

            “Easier?”

            He shrugs with a self-deprecating smile. “Just . . . wanting and not having, it can get unbearable. Quickly so.” He wets his lips. “I didn’t know what to say anyway. You have to understand, people don’t talk about the things they feel where I come from. I got really tongue-tied around you—leading you and everyone else to believe that I despised you, apparently. I . . . I had no idea. I owe you an apology for that.”