“Wait.” I blurt the word out as an absurd idea springs into my mind—an idea where maybe I can have a little bit of everything.
That’s possible, isn’t it? I can find a way.
The air in my lungs stills; the foyer quiets fromsilencetovacuum.I take a deep breath and then speak.
“If you would be okay with something more casual than—thandating, specifically—” But I break off, because the words aren’t coming out of my mouth. I’ve said them before to other men, and they always worked.
Why can’t I spit them out?
But it seems I don’t need to complete my sentence, because understanding passes over Roman’s face. He raises his eyebrows as once more genuine surprise flashes over his features. Like last time, though, the expression disappears in an instant, replaced by something guarded.
“Little vandal,” he says, tilting his head. “Are you trying to propose that we have a fling?” His hand falls away from the doorhandle as he turns to face me more fully. “Something to get any pesky feelings out of our systems?”
I swallow, but I’m not sure my throat is working.
Iwasabout to propose that—something that would let me test things with Roman while staying safe from any more heartache or stupid feelings.
Except the words are still stuck between my teeth, and they’re souring—and what on earth is wrong with me that an idea I found appealing with Bart and even Tyler in the beginning somehow feels wrong now?
I don’t deny it, because I’m not going to lie, and Roman nods as he looks more closely at me.
“You were. You were going to take dating off the table and replace it with something easier.” When he cocks a brow at me, it’s not playful or arrogant like I’m accustomed to; it’s faintly mocking. “Why back out now? That’s the kind of person I am, isn’t it? Picking up women in bars and sending them home in the morning?” His voice has dropped to something soft but cool. “And that’s what you want, isn’t it?” he goes on. “So go ahead and ask. How do you know I won’t agree?”
It’s too warm in this foyer—too warm and, somehow, also too cold. Roman is looking at me in a way he’s never looked at me before. And I know he wouldn’t agree to a fling. What’s more, I think…
I think I might even be upset if he did. I have no idea why, or what I’m feeling, or why something deep down feels like it’s being torn in half, seeing him look at me like this—mocking and closed off.
Roman wouldn’t agree to something so cheap. And although I tried to offer it, maybe deep down I was opposed too, because I couldn’t even get the words out.
“I don’t really date. Or—I try not to.” I press my hands tightly to my sides because they’re shaking, and it’s embarrassing. My words come out broken, too, but I keep my head held high.
The problem is…I’m not sure this is something to be proud of.
When a derisive snort escapes Roman, he leans back against the front door and shakes his head tiredly. “I’m sure you don’t,” he says. “You start to like a man and then keep him at arm’s length, close enough to reap a few benefits but far enough that it’s easy to discard him when he disappoints you. And you wait for that disappointment to happen. You watch for it.” Then he sighs. “Are you going to live like that? Forever?”
I don’t answer, because I have no words, and my tongue is swollen painfully in my mouth, and the ground is no longer solid beneath me. It’s shaking just like my hands, tremors that threaten to knock me off-balance and careening into a pit of doubt and questions.
“Forget about it,” he says after a moment of silence. The coolness in his voice is gone; there’s nothing but politeness now, accompanied by a distant smile. “I might not be around much from here on out,” he goes on. “I’m working on lining up new employment. Let me know when you’re all done. I’ll make sure you’re paid for everything.”
Then, with a lurch of the front door and unnaturally swift steps, he’s gone—away from me, away from the conversation we just had, away from any possibilities that existed between us.
A tickle against my cheek startles me out of my thoughts, and I slap the spot quickly. I pull my hand away expecting to see a bug, but there’s no black smudge—only the remains of a single tear.
There aretwo big problems with lying to my sisters:
1) I am not good at hiding my feelings, and
2) My sisters are not stupid.
I managed to get out the door this morning without seeing much of them, because I was still tangled up about yesterday. I ran some of our typical Saturday errands, and then I ran some less-typical errands, just to keep out of the house. I had hoped that by the time I got home I would be feeling better, but to my surprise, I wasn’t.
So I went upstairs and locked myself in my room, claiming a need to work—which is believable enough. I wasted an entire Saturday afternoon like that. A million things I could have been doing, but instead I stared at my ceiling and out my window and into my closet. I organized my clothes and shoes a bit. Checked my phone a million times and hated myself for it.
But I still feel like garbage, in ways I can only partly explain. And it’s showing.
Juliet is a master at reading emotions, especially since I’m her sister. India is quieter and more reserved, but she can tell something is wrong too. They’ve been giving me questioning looks all evening, and I can only hide it for so long. Even when I try to smile reassuringly at them, they exchange expressions of faint concern.
Am I that bad at smiling?
