And even more annoyed by how right it feels to make sure she’s safe.
twenty-two
Sadie
I’veseenColsonsimplydetest the existence of the world, be annoyed at the smallest things, like the sun being out in the summer and he can’t find his sunglasses. But right now? His annoyance, or whatever he’s feeling, is next level.
And it’s my fault.
Right now, I’m trying to distract myself from this fact and focus on the things around me. I’ve never been inside Colson’s house until now. And one thing’s for sure—this isn’t what I’d ever expect. Everything is so light and has the type of put-together colors and patterns that screams this wasn’t his call. Like, there’s no world I live in where Colson asks for these lovely yellow kitchen cabinets.
There’s nothing besides the sound of my teeth chattering together and the rain dripping down my back, soaking me to my bones. My cheeks sting from the wind, viciously energized from the lake.
I’m looking around, cataloging the details of the parts of the house I can see, when Colson hands me a towel. I pull at my jacket zipper and he helps me take it off, hanging it on a few of the entryway hooks.
I pull the towel around my shoulders, trying to warm up. Looking down, I see my shirt is sticking to my skin. Damn. The wind and rain were no match for my jacket.
The tension between us is smothering; I’m almost afraid to move. Maybe I’ll dry out in the entryway and Colson can go on with his night before the storm and I crashed it.
“Are you really just going to stand there?” he asks, as I’m contemplating how long I think I could stand in a single spot. He puts a kettle on the stove.
“As soon as it’s safe,” I say quietly, “I’ll head home.”
Colson’s head snaps up. “Why?”
I shrug, embarrassed heat creeping up my neck. “Because I am not your problem. This isn’t your problem. And because”—I gesture vaguely—“you’re clearly mad.”
“I am mad,” he agrees with me.
My stomach drops because knowing it and hearing someone say it are two different things. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t even know what I’m mad about.”
I frown. “I think I get it.” It’s hard to look at him, so I get a quick glance before focusing on the kettle heating on the burner.
“No. You absolutely don’t get it.” He steps closer. “You, standing out there in that storm?” he says. “That’s what I’m mad about.”
I blink. “I was handling it.”
“No,” he says immediately, “you were risking it.”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“That’s bullshit. We’re talking about taking cover sort of weather and you’re out there and then you’re about to drive home?”
The words land heavy between us.
He continues, voice tight. “I watched the road flood, and when I think you’re finally going to realize it’s too much, you don’t. You have your keys in your hand and all I can think about is how much you would rather risk instead of asking me for help.”
I cross my arms, defensive. “I didn’t want to push.”
“Why?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Dangerous.
“I didn’t want to be a burden,” I admit. The words feel small and almost pathetic on my lips.
Something breaks across his face.
