“Why aren’t you asking me why I never told you I’m related to Roland Keating?”
“Past the point where it matters.” He winces.
“You’re thinking about Naked Tuesdays, aren’t you?”
“I’m seeing a hypnotist next week to get that knowledge permanently removed from my brain.”
“Good. You shouldn’t know that about the owner of your team.”
“Are you threatening me or baiting me?”
“Baiting. Is it working?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because half the guys on the team don’t want to talk about where they came from, and you already told me you weren’t happy about taking a pity job from family, and I know how people treat Miranda at the office, and sometimes at big events too, just because of who your dad is, and I get why you wouldn’t want that.”
Yep.
I’m madder now.
Furious, actually.
Here’s a nice, attractive, thoughtful guy who spent the time working on a reason to give me the benefit of the doubt in a way that my own former best friend probably wouldn’t have, and because he’s a rugby player on the team that my stepfather owns, we can’t be friends.
Much less anything more.
It’s not fucking fair.
It’s not fucking fair, and I hate that I can’t have him as a friend.
“Shit, don’t cry.” He finally sits on the couch, but it’s moreto grab the box of tissues sitting on an end table and hold them out to me than it is because he wanted to sit.
Or so I assume since he’s refused to sit until now.
I take the offered tissues and drop into the easy chair next to the couch while I fail to swallow the lump in my throat and blink back the hot moisture in my eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with crying. This is hard. Crying is normal. Crying is natural. Don’t tell me not to cry.”
“I don’t mean you can’t cry. I just mean I don’t want to be the reason you cry.”
It’s in my sinuses now too. The crying has hit my sinuses. “I don’t want special treatment.”
“I should’ve moved in with friends anyway. Their place doesn’t have stairs. Unless the elevator breaks, and then I’d be stuck, but it’s a good building. The elevator shouldn’t break. Unless there’s a fire, and then it’s just my time to go.”
“Stop talking.”
“I can’t stop talking unless you stop crying.”
“I can’t stop crying while you’re talking!”
He drops his head in his hands.
I blow my nose again while I sniffle.
This is probably partially pregnancy hormones, but that’s not all it is.
