“I like reading,” he said without missing a beat. “And I know you’ve got a whole shelf of history books.”
“You want to buy a book?” I asked, sarcasm shaky at best.
“I’d buy all of them if you’d just let me in out of the snow.” I blinked, glancing past his face to where flakes had gathered on his shoulders. His confidence wavered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. “Wesley?” he asked.
I swallowed hard. He was teasing, steady one moment, unsure the next, and my fragile heart was already on the verge of giving itself wholly to him. After all, I’d been falling for Hunter for nearly two years. And standing here, with cocoa warming my hand and his smile undoing me, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could pretend otherwise.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
His shoulders sagged for a second before he pulled himself upright again, forcing a crooked smile. “Having fun? Connecting? I don’t know what the cool kids call it.”
I laughed nervously, clutching the cocoa tighter. “The cool kids probably aren’t standing at back doors having existential breakdowns.”
“Maybe not,” he said, stepping just inside the door, “but I’d rather be here.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I whispered, heat creeping up my neck.
He tilted his head. “Then tell me. Because from where I’m standing, this feels…important.”
My breath caught. “Hunter?—”
“Wesley,” he interrupted, eyes serious now. “I’m not playing at anything.”
“You’re leaving,” I said.
He exhaled, the sound heavy, and for once, he didn’t try to hide behind a grin. “Yeah. I’ve got interviews lined up, and I need tenure if I want any kind of future in academia. Seattle, maybe LA. I don’t even know yet, but I know it means leaving here.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “Leaving you.” His voice was rough, almost regretful, and his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t quite dare. Guilt flickered in his eyes, as if he hated saying the words even as he had to.
My chest ached. “What’s the point, Hunter?Why start something when you’re already packing your bags?”
“Because I couldn’t not,” he admitted. “You’re in my head, and I want to let you into my heart, and I don’t know what to do with that. Can you give me time? I want to be with you, Wes. I still do. I don’t have answers yet, just…maybe we can figure it out together? Visiting, calling, me finding excuses to come back. I don’t want this to end before it even begins.”
I stared at him, torn in two. He was offering hope and heartache in the same breath, and all I knew for certain was that I wanted him too badly to slam the door in his face.
“I deserve someone who’s here for me.”
“I know.”
“But I won’t ask you to stay.”
“I know. That’s the best part of you.”
I glanced back into my store room, shivering as the outside cold came in. If I let him in, if I gave him this, how much of myself was I giving up?
“It’s okay,” he said, with a soft smile that wavered at the edges, his confidence slipping for a heartbeat as if he hated walking away. He held out the bag of croissants. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow. Night, Wes.”
He was only three steps from his back door when it hit me. What the fuck was I doing?
“Hunter?”
He stopped and turned to face me. “It’s okay, Wes, I understand?—”
“I ordered a new book, and it arrived yesterday,” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop myself. “Logistical Failures and Command Disputes: A Reconsideration of Union Army Supply Lines in 1863by, uh, Professor something-or-other.”
“That’s Ben… Benedict Carrow, I mean. Good guy. Loves beer.”
“Okay then,” I said, as if I recalled the name, but I’d barely learned the complicated title, which I thought might impress Hunter. “It’s got this teeny tiny typeface and no pictures and is probably dense as hell, but I’m sure it’s brilliant.”
Hunter’s lips twitched. “Is there really a big call for that kind of in-depth essay in Wishing Tree?”
