The Glass House by Suki Fleet Read Free Book Online Page A

for thinking it.” He took a shaky breath before dipping his head and gripping my hand tightly.
    Oh.
    The stupid thing was still in my pocket. I didn’t want it to be there. I wanted so much for it not to be there. But I pulled it out, the silver paper crumpled and not quite so pretty now.
    Reluctantly I held it out to him.
    “I did get you a present. I kind of forgot to give it to you.” I pulled a face, because I had definitely been a coward about that.
    His large, beautiful hand let go of mine, and he held the tiny box so carefully and reverently, it was as if I’d given him the keys to a top-class sports car.
    His eyes were wide, his expression one of complete wonderment. And all because of a tiny box wrapped in silver paper. I hoped he wasn’t going to be disappointed now.
    “I know I’m no Luke Jones. I’ll never be like him. I’m fat, I’m rubbish at sports—”
    I rolled my eyes, but I don’t think he noticed.
    “You’re not fat,” I said. I wondered if it was really an issue for him and felt about a hundred times worse for ever using it against him. Thomas was well built, if a little stocky. He definitely wasn’t fat, but he didn’t do himself any favors with the baggy clothes he wore.
    And I didn’t know what was with the Luke Jones comparisons. Luke Jones was a David , a sculpture made flesh. So what if Thomas wasn’t? I didn’t feel this way about Luke Jones. I didn’t make wildly inappropriate presents for Luke Jones, and if I saw Luke Jones having an asthma attack, I certainly wouldn’t sit with him and hold his hand and have to stop myself from pulling him into my arms. Luke Jones was an ideal, but Thomas was real and here and affecting every single one of my senses. It scared me a little that Thomas mentioned Luke Jones at all. I couldn’t bear it if my watching him was that obvious to everyone.
    “I’ll never stand out from the crowd… I’m just too shy and ordinary… but when I’m with you… it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters. There isn’t even any bloody crowd—there’s just us.”
    Maybe he was looking at me. I don’t know. I was staring at my hands. Warmth swirling through my insides. It felt so fucking good.
    “You’re not shy. You come and talk to me at school,” I mumbled, because I was self-aware enough to realize that was truly an act of bravado in itself.
    I wished he’d just open the damn present. I was starting to feel a little sick with suspense.
    “Getting the guts to talk to you in class is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
    Leaning over, he picked at the Sellotape I’d inexpertly taped around the present. The skin of his neck looked all pinkly flushed, and I had an almost irresistible urge to place my hand there, just to see if it felt hot or warm, smooth or soft, or if his short hair was really as damp as it looked where it curled against his nape.
    I glanced around the room, trying to concentrate on the awfulness of the flat to try and lessen the intensity of these unnerving urges to touch Thomas. We lived in a dirty, cluttered mess with piles of clothes on the floor, magazines strewn about, dirty cups and plates in the kitchen. But all it did was remind me of my place in the hierarchy of things, and like a black cloud covering the sun, the warmth swirling in my guts turned cold and dark, and I began to doubt what I was doing, what Thomas was doing.
    Why did it hurt that he was actually careful not to tear the paper? Why did it hurt that this all seemed to mean so much to him? Why was I so scared I was going to hurt him?
    The pressure behind my eyes was like a tsunami I couldn’t stop. This whole situation played out in my head—I could never give Thomas what he needed, what he deserved. I had hurt him, and I would continue to hurt him, and I didn’t want to. I never wanted to hurt him. But I knew it was inevitable. I’d never felt so completely at the mercy of something so absolute and so true.
    Thomas actually gasped when he opened