I don’t miss the way he changed the conversation away from his insecurities, but my brain is too foggy to switch back. “That’s not going to work,” I say, my spine arching.
“Why not?” He sounds frustrated.
“Because I don’t do anything halfway.”
Will rumbles out a laugh and presses one kiss to my temple before his arm loosens and he steps back. I inhale ragged breaths as we look at each other.
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”
He looks past me, steadying his own breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words wholly insufficient.
“Don’t be, Josephine. You owe me nothing.”
“I owe it to you not to cross my own boundaries. Which I keep doing.”
He looks back at me. “I don’t exactly mind when you cross them.”
Silence swallows our want.
“Thank you for agreeing to my deal,” Will says, his voice husky and low. He shoots me one last loaded gaze and vanishes into the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve always put my anxiety into work. I scrape the bad feelings off my skin, gather them into manageable pieces, and bury them around the office—between file folders, underneath desks.
It’s always been like this.
When I was a teenager, I’d get anxious my mother wanted to live my life for me. Make decisions for me, pass judgment on my body for me, make social plans for me, care about schoolworkjust enoughfor me. (Don’t be too smart, darling, it’ll only get you into trouble.) When it got to the point where I wasn’t sure if I was made of straw or blood and bones, I’d disappear to Oma’s house and sew something.Thatwas a tangible use of my hands. Proof I had meaning, that I was productive. That my existence was tied to the world.
When Oma died—when I was a senior in high school with two months left, friendless and lonely and heartbroken—the only way I knew how to feel close to her was tomake.
Good grades, clothes, plans.
Decisions.
Idecidedto delete my social media,decidedto attend the best college to admit me. I worked hard, took on extra credit, and wound up with a better second-semester GPA than I or my parents thought possible. I started working at a boutique, steamed every item we put on sale even though my boss told me it wasn’t necessary. At the end of the summer, I went to college and turned over a new leaf.
I wasn’t the friendless girl with cute clothes and passable grades.
I was the quiet girl withhomemadeclothes and straight A’s.
Junior year, when I started dating Clay, and for some reason started to feel like I was made of straw again—a tumbleweed, whose thoughts weren’t important, whose decisions didn’tmatter,whose existence wasn’t tied to the rest of the world—I founded Revenant.
It’s always been like this.
Anxiety equals productivity.
You’re panicking?Do something.
Don’t do somethingaboutit.Just dosomething.
Even now, as I pull back on sleeping hours and spend later nights in the office, I’m at least partially aware of what I’m doing. You can’t coexist with the worst parts of yourself for twenty-seven years and notsometimespull back the curtain.
I go on a few rides with Gio and Leonie, make amends with Camila after our voice-raising in her kitchen, but I avoid talking about what’s really eating at me with all three of them. I make excuses about work stress when they broach the subject of my mental state.
All in all, I girl-boss so close to the sun that nine days after Garlic Fest, I almost pass out from exhaustion.
