“Sounds nice,” he says.
“Sounds like a fantasy. Like a birthday and New Year’s celebration combined, which is what I’ve always dreamed of doing, but it’s silly, right? I don’t even like New Year’s Eve, but if I had a birthday party on the same night, maybe it would make me like it more. I don’t know. I never approached my parents with the idea because I knew they’d turn me down.”
“Why would they turn you down?” Crew asks, finally reaching for a slice of pizza. At least I’m not the only one eating.
“Because they always have plans, and they never include me. I used to think a New Year’s Eve party was so glamorous, especially the parties my parents would attend. But now I realize there is something rather ominous about New Year’s Eve. Don’t you think?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me with that cool, steady gaze of his as he keeps eating.
“It’s almost the end of a year. Sometimes even an era. My birthday has come and gone, not that anyone cares about it. All of us are too busy making plans for the future. Bogus promises to ourselves we’ll never fulfill. Then there’s the countdown at the end of the night, and the frantic search to find someone to kiss at midnight. How we promise to be good and stick to our resolutions, even though we know deep down we won’t keep them.” I stop talking, realizing I sound pessimistic, which isn’t my normal style.
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” he murmurs.
I shrug one shoulder, suddenly uncomfortable. “I sound like a selfish brat.”
“You sound like someone who really doesn’t like this time of year,” he corrects.
God, he’s so right. I actually hate this time of year.
“I make all of these promises to myself, and now I’m breaking them,” I admit. “Maybe I’ll become nothing but a disappointment.”
“You’re not a disappointment.”
“To you.” I don’t bother mentioning my parents.
Specifically, my father.
“Come here.” Crew holds his hand out and I take it, letting him pull me to him, a gasp leaving me when I’m fully pressed against him. He sneaks his arm around my waist, his hand resting on my backside and I stare up at him, at a complete loss of words from the intensity in his gaze. “I don’t like seeing you look so sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I admit, and I mean it. “I just—”
“Want to forget everything else? Everybody else?”
I nod, resting a hand against his chest, my palm directly over his thundering heart. “Maybe I am a little sad.”
He dips down, his mouth at my ear. “What would make you feel better?”
I turn toward his mouth, my lips brushing his when I whisper, “You.”