“And,” he drags out, his words accompanied by the click of a ratchet then a grunt. “Done.”
The small grin on his face flashes and my cheeks get hotter.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I don’t mean to say it. Or at least, say it that way, but I regret it the moment it slips past my lips.
Tristen’s face falls into a tight-lipped forced smile and I hate it.
“A lot but, maybe elaborate.”
My chest goes tight.
He doesn’t say it in a mean way or with malice, but I can see it in the way his shoulders tighten ever so slightly. The twitch in his brow. The flex of his dirty fingers.
“I-I didn’t mean that. Never mind.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t do that. Say what you were gonna say.”
“I…”
I wipe my hands on my pants and curl them back into my sleeves.
“You think there’s something wrong with me?”
“I—”
“Emmett.”
I stiffen and drop my gaze to the ground. There are loose parts around where Tristen’s kneeling. Tools. A chunk of the green cover he pulled off.
I don’t belong here.
A lump forms in my throat and I try to swallow around it.
“It’s okay, bub.”
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” Even my own voice sounds off. Monotone. Like it came from someone else instead of me.
The tools all blend together in one shining green blob of nothingness.
“Bubbles.”
Something touches my chin, and I jump. Stumble. Fall back on my ass and gasp.
“Nonononono.”
“Hey, hey. Em, look at me.”
A sound wedges itself out past the rock in my throat that sounds an awful lot like a whimper, and I draw my knees up. Hug my legs to my chest.
“I’m a selfish asshole. I’m s-sorry. Sorry.”
“You’re only an asshole if you decide to judge me for what’s wrong with me.”
My ears ring. “What?”
