I glare at that hair—at that collarbone. At that temptation.
“I don’t know whyyou’rerelieved, though,” Poem continues.
My brows lower. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s not like it being free is going to get me out of here faster.”
“I know that.”
“So whether or not I can pay for it doesn’t seem like something you’d normally care about. You’re not exactly awellspring of love and compassion for me, as evidenced by your inability to appreciate my appreciation of your person.” Her head straightens as her nose scrunches, infuriatingly adorable. “What’s going on?”
My hands fist, both to stop me from poking her little wrinkled-up nose and to stop me fromstrangling her.
“I’m not a monster.” The words come rougher than I intend them to, and I work to soften my tone as I continue, “I don’t revel in your suffering, no matter what you think. I…” I swallow and look away, not quite able to stare into her insultingly surprised eyes. “I care about you, Poem. I don’t want to see bad things happen in your life, or to see you struggle through them. That’s not fun for me any more than it’s fun for you.”
A weighted silence beats for eight seconds before she replies. When she does, my gaze shoots back to her as my jaw clenches.
“It kind of is fun for me to watch you suffer and struggle, though,” she tells me. Her teeth appear to nibble at her lower lip. “Isn’t that like… our whole thing?”
I tip my head back and appeal to a higher being. Left to my own devices, she might not make it through the night.
“Is it not?” she asks. “You do your whole grumpy grumpy hates Poem man thing, and I poke at you to make it an even grumpier grumpy hates Poem man thing. That’s how we handle our differences and your insecurities about everyone loving me more than you. I thought this was established.”
When my head drops, her brows have drawn together in confusion. Actual. Genuine. Confusion.
I curse.
“No, kit,” I growl. “It isnotour ‘whole thing.’ It’s not even our half thing. And my insecurities aren’t about everyone loving you more than me. Are you kidding me?”
“Uh…no?”
It occurs to me quite suddenly that she truly has no clue. Not an iota, not an inkling, not anideaof the sort of feelings I harbor for her. She hasn’t been teasing me about my bedroom or my looks because, on some level, she understands the sort of pointed attacks they are. She’s not laid awake in bed at night thinking about thewhat ifs until she’s managed to half convince herself that some of thosewhat ifs could be a possibility for the future, if only she felt like she could reach for them.
She hasn’t thought aboutmein that context at all.
Fire slashes through my belly.
I thought—at least a little bit, on some level—that our bickering had an edge of somethingmoreto it. That once I’d proven myself to not be an irresponsible moron, we’d lean more into that edge until we eventually toppled, finding ourselves tidily together and in love.
Why I thought anything with Poem would betidyis anyone’s guess.
I’m not only stupid, I’m anidiot.
First thing’s first. “I don’t hate you,” I declare. “Stop thinking that immediately.”
Her fingers flex around the tip jar.
“Say it,” I order, needing to be sure we’re on the same page with this, at least. “Say, ‘Fox doesn’t hate me.’”
Her jaw drops in disbelief. “Are you sick?” she asks. “Do I need to call someone for you?”
Perhaps twelve steps pasttoo intense, I repeat, “Say it, kit. I need to know that you understand.”
“I don’t, though,” she retorts. “Like, at all. What do you mean you don’t hate me? What was all ofthat, then?” She waves wildly, encompassing the whole of the time that we’ve known each other. “I’ve seen you with people you like, you know. I know how you behave, and I know it’s nothing like the way you treat me.”
Yes, well. I’m not infuriatingly in love with everyone else, am I?
I don’t say that, though, because as much as I want her to understand the situation, I’m not ready forthatlevel of understanding.
