Fear that if Oliver knows what I truly want, he’ll call back to the office and cancel the contract that keeps us afloat anyway?
General contrariness that I was born with and haven’t fully shaken no matter how much of a good influence Bea’s been on me for the past four years?
Or possibly I’ve convinced myself that I can still convince him to go back to M2G without having to confess why it matters.
He’s still my old world.
He’s still the people who’ll take away your toys to teach you a lesson and laugh while they do it.
Except he bought me a hermit crab to replace my lobster and this magical heating pad that made the pain in my neck feel better before it lost all of its heat.
He got me donuts for breakfast.
He stopped at the antique store and hasn’t once yelled that it put us behind schedule.
And now we’re in the middle of a downpour so thick that we’ve had to pull over to the side of the road because we can’tseethe road.
Lightning flashes, and thunder booms so close that the car shakes.
“It should pass in fifteen minutes or so.” I’m muttering because I can’t bring myself to say anything nice when I know I’ve been an asshole, and I don’t want to apologize even though I need to.
I shouldn’t have yelled at him.
I shouldn’t be mad about who he used to be when it’s clear he’s someone else now, when he’s already told me he doesn’t want to get back together with Margot, when he’s been so kind.
But I cannot—cannot—handle how much I like him right now.
Knowing he definitely couldn’t ever like me back—it makes me feel like I’m the old Daphne.
Like I’m a fuckup all over again. Like I don’t fit.
And I want to fit. Idofit.
Until I start arguing with him.
“I checked the weather app myself,” he replies stiffly.
I don’t congratulate him on doing something obvious the way I would if he were one of Bea’s brothers. They’re fun to annoy on occasion, and they regularly throw the sarcasm right back at me. It makes me feel like they’re my brothers too.
But when I blow out a heavy breath and my window fogs up as another bolt of lightning hits entirely too close, the rattle of the car around us shakes me enough to prompt the regrets.
“I’m sorry I called you boring.”
He doesn’t reply.
And he shouldn’t.
I’m so confused about how much I like him right now that I can’t behave like a normal, rational, kind person would, and even if he’s boring, he doesn’t deserve to be yelled at about it.
“You’re right.”
I’d jerk my head around fast if I could move my neck that quickly without pain.
And if I wanted to see his face.
But I honestly kind of don’t.
His stubble and the scowls and the small kindnesses—the man is stupidly attractive in ways he has no right to be and in ways that I have no right to notice.
