“We can’t do this,” I whisper.
His eyes fall shut, and he raises both hands to rub his face. In lieu of answering, he takes a slow breath.
“Asher?”
“Yeah?” His hands still cover his mouth, so his raspy voice is smothered beneath them.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
I stare at the visible portion of his face, waiting for a more elaborate response, but it never comes. My heart slowly returns to a regular rhythm, safe behind its walls. Asher gives no indication how I should proceed, so I exist in the interminable, torturous silence, hoping I haven’t decimated us.
“Why not?” he finally asks, turning to look at me as his hands drop to his sides.
I pause, studying the guarded light in his eyes. “Why not what?”
“Why can’t we do this?” He says it like it’s a test, like there’s a right and wrong answer, and he’s curious which I’ll choose.
“You don’t do casual.” I slide my hand across the comforter, closer to his, but he lifts his away before we touch.
He rises to his elbows, studying me closely. “You—you think this would be casual?”
“Casual is just... all I’m capable of.”
Silence follows, broken only by the gentle hum as the A/C kicks on.
“I don’t believe you,” Asher says eventually. “And I don’t think you believe you, either.”
I— What?
How—
That’s not—
The words are a punch to the gut. I sit up, and when that doesn’t make the ache go away, I stand, pacing away from him. Who is he to tell me what I do and don’t believe about myself? Why does he think he has the right to push against my barriers?
“Yes, I do,” I say. “This is how I’ve always lived my life, Asher. It’s just easier—”
“Easier, but not healthy.” He shifts forward, setting his elbows on his knees. His vacant stare lands on the hardwood, the same place I’d once shattered a glass of red wine. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. That’s not— We... aren’t... like that, I guess. I’m sorry I did that. But you can’t spend your life hiding from the deeper emotions, Joss. It’s not me, sure, but it has to be someone.”
Why does it have to be someone? If it was ever going to be anyone, wouldn’t it be him? I’m just too broken to reach for the deeper emotions he wants. He doesn’t understand—won’t ever understand—so I ignore those words to focus on something else he said:I shouldn’t have kissed you.
Best kiss of my life, and he regrets it. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I should probably regret it, too. I’ll force myself to regret it at some point. Someday. But in the meantime, I have to know: “Whydidyou kiss me?”
He looks up at me through his lashes, expressionless. “You looked like you wanted me to.”
Fair enough. I try to resurrect the bravery that the touch of his lips unleashed, the sense of freedom, like his arms could keep me safe from anything life might throw at me. But I’m too suffused with the familiar panic. The dread of potential loss. The fear of pain.
For an anesthesiologist, I have very little pain tolerance. Perhaps that’s why I became one. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
“I did want you to,” I say because I don’t want him to think he did something wrong. “I just... changed my mind.”
He nods and drags his teeth over his bottom lip in a way that appears vaguely painful. The lack of a smile on his face jars something loose inside me, and another kind of apprehension wakes. “Are we okay, Asher?”
Ugh. The fake smile is almost worse than no smile. “Yeah,sugarplum. Definitely.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. His gaze is trained somewhere above my left shoulder.
I glance in that direction, finding only an expanse of forest green wall.
