His eyes bounce between mine, confused almost, but whatever emotion it is vanishes the next time I blink. “It’s not a good idea. Too complicated. I have too much going on in my life right now.”
My jaw clenches. “Complicated? Seems pretty simple to me. What about everything you said?”
“Stor . . .” His tone is so anguished, I almost feel sorry for him. “I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“Almost.”
“Yes, almost. I’m sorry.”
The disappointment is tangible. So is my frustration, even as I try to take breaths to stay calm, but it all comes rushing back—the humiliation, the embarrassment, the desolation of unrequited love.
“I cannotbelieveyou’re doing this again.”
The anguish vanishes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means this isn’t the first time,” I snap, but we may as well get to the bottom of everything while I’m here. “Was it too ‘complicated’ then?”
“Then?When?”
“The first time you almost kissed me. On the hill, when you took off and barely said goodbye, and practically ignored me for the rest of the summer. I want to know what happened.”
His brows become a dark slash on his face. “Stor, stop it?—”
“No, I want to know.” I’mthisclose to stamping my foot. “I deserve to know why you?—”
“Clemmie told me she saw you making out with Sam Pelling?—”
I balk, because what the actual fuck? “What?”
“That dickhead. Sam Pelling.”
“I know who you’re talking about. Andhe’s not a dickhead. And I never snog . . .” I pause as an eleven-year-old memory barrels into me.Well, shit.
Hendricks’s eyes narrow, his behavior justified. “Yes?”
I’d completely forgotten about that night. Sam and I used to fool around in sixth form, nothing serious, but I’d totally blanked that anything had happened before then. And by that point, after a summer of watching Hendricks with other girls, I’d resigned myself to the fact that we would never happen.
Now I learn we’re nothing but a product of bad communication and insecurity, and that perhaps I’m fifty percent responsible for this situation.
My shoulders drop, and the frustration is replaced by contrition.
“Okay, there’s asmallchance Imighthave snogged him that summer.” I squash my fingers together. That’s how small the chance is. Although it’s accurate, so notthatsmall. “There was a bunch of us drinking after our final exams. We played spin the bottle . . .”
Hendricks’s jaw is so tight I can make out the divots from him clenching. I can almost hear his heart pounding as he weighs up the decisions he made eleven years ago. He stares at me. Stares and stares andstares, until, “Fuck!”
I don’t move, watching as he paces back and forth across a room not built for pacing, given it only takes him five steps before he has to turn around again.
“Um . . . just for clarity, are you mad I snogged Sam Pelling? Or mad that we didn’t . . .” I gesture back and forth between us.
“Both. Fuck.Fuck.Story, this is fucked up.Wearefucked up?—”
I scoff. “I mean, that’s a bit extreme?—”
“No, it’s not.” He shakes his head, slumping back. Dejected.
“Hen, two days ago you told me you loved me.”
“I did love you, Story. I do. That’s the problem.” His fists ball against his forehead, and when he looks at me, all I see is enough sorrow that my heart cracks. “I meant what I said the other night. When you left, it was like you died. I can’t do that again, and I’m not willing to.”
