It had all gone to hell, and he should have known better.
The only silver lining, if he could call it that, was that at least she'd been telling the truth about the gargling. He still wasn't sure why he'd done it. Maybe partly to see if she'd been putting him on? Out of vindictiveness? He knew it was petty but he hadn't been able to help himself. He was able to justify it a little, though - maybe if she had to suffer just a taste of what he was going through she'd scrap the rules she'd imposed on them both and let him kiss her, touch her again. It was a calculated risk; those were the only ones he was willing to make anymore. That first kiss had been the first time in eons that he'd done something with no idea of how it would turn out, and the resulting chaos had been enough to scare him off from doing anything like it again. Even asking her out wasn't as much of a risk- he'd guessed she'd say yes - she was the one who'd initiated their illuminating, destructive, glorious kisses the other night, after all - even though he'd still been nervous about it. With good reason, apparently. You'd think having lived with a girl for nearly two years would have acclimated him to the occasional sight of her in only a towel, but no - his brain had short-circuited completely. He'd thought she'd gotten the gist, though, but clearly not.
So now there they were, in separate rooms, and with any luck he wasn't the only one thinking of the person across the hall in total frustration. He changed out of his fancy clothes into a clean - clean! - tee and shorts and sat on the bed, head in hands.
What did she want? Well, him, maybe a little. There was that silver lining. But for what - just sex? He'd thought she wasn't a casual sex kind of girl, but maybe that was all she was willing to give him. She'd said she'd been attracted to him because he was trying. Well, he was. But it was damn hard to pull himself out of the rut he'd purposely dug himself into after he'd left home for college. He didn't want responsibility. He didn't want to be the one everyone leaned on. It was too hard, and he'd had enough of it.
But then he'd look into her eyes every time she needed him and he would all but fall over himself to help her out, like some kind of knight in shining armor, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And the thing is, a lot of the time it was.
Except for now, when she wanted to know what he wanted from her. Because he had only just figured it out, the night of the drinking game, and it had scared him utterly. He'd barely been able to come to terms with it himself; how would she react if she really knew? In her place he'd probably run for the hills.
He climbed into the bed, flopped down on his back and screamed into a pillow in frustration. Like a Pavlovian dog he'd gotten all turned on as soon as he saw her futilely put her hands on that jar. She didn't even have to ask. But that was the thing - she really had no idea how attractive she was to him. All the time. Even tonight, in that old baseball shirt and her hair falling out of the clip she'd put it in. His hands drifted downwards... he knew it was inevitable that he'd end up doing this tonight, too, the way things had turned out. He wondered what she was doing right then, and the subsequent thought that she was pretty much doing the same thing he was at that moment - and the associated imagery - made things take a lot less time than they usually did.
Maybe she would crack before he did. He could only hope. He knew she'd liked kissing him. He'd deduced that she was interested enough, at least, to get jealous of other girls. Maybe he could push her buttons enough to make her cave.
Or maybe he'd go insane in the process.
He missed her. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Tonight he was supposed to romance her, make her feel special, and maybe if he was really lucky persuade her to join him in his room. In his bed. Or at the very least give her a good night kiss. Wasn't that how first dates were supposed to end?
It had all gone to hell, and he should have known better.