One thing Iusedto love about Sawyer, rather, because starting now, I’ve resolved to focus only on his flaws.
Sure enough, he smiles. “It’s an idiom, Wren. You might’ve learned about them … in English class.”
I want to shout,You wrote me back!
Instead, I dig in my heels. “It was the hardest I’d ever come.”
A cruel smile touches the corners of Sawyer’s lips. “You probably pretended it was me.”
I can’t come up with a cutting enough response. I’m too aware of the heat spreading through me, terrified of the way he’s invaded my inner thoughts. He’s not just tattooed on my skin. He’s deeper. Cells in my blood. Marrow in my bones. So entangled that I can’t remove him without cutting myself up.
I allow some honesty out. Maybe that’s the only way to excise him.
“I wanted more, okay? I thought weweremore. That’s why I showed up on New Year’s. You obviously felt differently, so?—”
“I never said that,” he interrupts.
“Right. You said, ‘Why?’ when you fucking knew why I was really there. That wasn’t humiliating enough? You need me to spell it out for you seven months later?” I shake my head, then move toward the car door.
Sawyer steps left, blocking me. “I’m sorry, Wren,” he says quietly.
“I don’t need an apology from you. I don’t needanythingfrom you. I wanted things from you. I’ve moved on. You can’t decide you want me now because I did.”
“You think that’s why I’m out here?”
“I don’t knowwhy you’re out here, Sawyer.”
He exhales. “I’m fucked up, Wren. I fuck up. You have no clue what you’re getting into with me, and I have no idea why you’d even want to.”
“Wantedto.” I emphasize the past tense.
One corner of his mouth curves up. “You kissed me back.”
“It was a reflex.”
“What about stroking my hair?”
“I wasn’tstroking.”
He hums, not really agreeing or disagreeing, and then his expression turns serious again. Tense too. “I really came out here to check … you’re okay?”
“Okay?” I echo. “Like, sober?”
“Yeah, that. And … the guy upstairs … he didn’t do anything …” He clears his throat. “Nothing, uh, happened that you didn’t want to happen?”
The only other time I’ve seen Sawyer so uncomfortable was when he showed up at the Red, White, and Blue party. And I’m experiencingthe same overwhelming, conflicting mixture of emotions now that I did then. Because it’s confusing. Because I can’t tell if he truly cares or if he’s as indifferent as he mostly acts. If this is the bout of not being an asshole he referred to or if this is a glimpse of him not hiding how he honestly feels.
I shake my head. “Thank you for … checking,” I say awkwardly.
He nods, stepping aside so I can reach my car.
I should leave. Probably. Definitely. But instead of grabbing the handle, I wind up mirroring Sawyer’s step so we’re still facing each other. And then rising on my tiptoes and wrapping my arms around him.
I’ve never hugged a guy who wasn’t related to me before. I sort of expect Sawyer to stiffen or to pull away, but he does neither. He rests his chin on the top of my head and folds his arms around my back. Then releases a breath that sounds like it’s been held for a while.
I don’t want to move. I want to move less and less with each passing second. He’s solid and warm, and he smells like Sawyer. I feel content and also exhilarated, like being held by him is the securest form of a thrill-seeking activity. Skydiving into a safety net.
He says nothing. Neither do I. Yet it feels like handing him another slice of my heart.
