Kenny felt exposed, stripped bare of every defense. Butdefense was overrated. All her defenses had done for her in the past was keep her isolated from everything and everyone.
She kept her chin up and her eyes on his face, watching for any signs of displeasure or rejection.
There was none. There was just a spasm of raw emotion on his face. It looked like pain and she hated that. Hated that she’d somehow hurt him, even if she didn’t know how.
Hurting him had never been her intention.
“I was right fuckingthere, Kenna. You didn’t need my shirts to feel close to me.”
“You moved out of our room,” she reminded, voice low and teeming with remembered pain.
“Christ, what a fucking mess this is,” he muttered and raked a hand through his wet hair. The gesture reminded Kenny of how soaked they both were. The cold was starting to seep into her bones, despite the relative warmth and humidity in the air.
“Look, we’ll talk, okay? But we need to dry off first. I’ll get those towels,” she stated and fled.
“Would you like something to eat? I can make a couple of sandwiches, or?—”
“No. Thank you,” Smith interrupted her.
Kenny swallowed nervously and twisted her hands together as she stood behind the counter in the small open-plan kitchen. Smith was sitting on the only easy chair, considerately leaving the more comfortable sofa for Kenny to occupy. Only she couldn’t quite bring herself to sit down yet.
They’d both had showers and were wearing fresh, dry clothes. Smith was in one of his pilfered T-shirts and while she was in the shower, he’d found a pair of clean sweatpants in his gym bag which had apparently been in his car since yesterday morning.
“Thirsty?”
“Kenna, please sit down.”
She nodded grimly and limped to the sofa on leaden feet. The cast made her movements awkward and jerky.
She sat on the edge of the seat, back rigid, quaking knees pressed primly together. She was wearing a pair of comfortable black yoga pants and a red hoodie, both of which she’d bought on her shopping trip yesterday. She didn’t have many lounging around the house clothes, simply because she rarely had the time or inclination tolounge.
Her choice in clothing had been tactical. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable having this conversation with Smith inhisclothing; it would have felt like a disadvantage. Kenny needed every advantage she could muster to get through this.
“Your eye looks terrible,” she said, wincing at little at the sight of his bloodshot and bruised eye. “How do you feel? Headache? Dizziness? I should probably have driven us here. That was negligent of me.”
“Kenna.” His voice was patient. “I’m fine.”
“Why do you call me that?” She didn’t know why she’d never asked him that before. She’d just always liked that he did. “Nobody else ever has.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he considered her question, and she had a moment’s doubt that he would answer.
“Why have you never asked me before?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe because I didn’t want you to think I didn’t like it.”
“Doyou like it?”
“Very much. I just alwayswondered.”
“I like the way it rolls off my tongue, the soft rhythm of it. It matches—matched—the way I felt about you when we first met. I also liked that it was mine alone. It felt intimate. Special.”
His words so accurately reflected how she felt whenever hecalled her Kenna, that she took a moment to absorb the quiet revelation.
They lapsed into silence while the storm raged outside, filling that silence with violent winds, booming thunder, and torrential rain.
She nervously picked at a cuticle before catching herself and dragging her hoodie sleeve over her hand.
She stared at him for a long moment, wondering how to start things. Should she wait for him to speak first? Permit him to decide the direction their talk would take?
