I shake my head. “I’m fine. You don’t have to do all this. You should go to work.”
He ignores me, searching my face, his expression inscrutable. “How’s your head? And your throat? Do you feel feverish?”
I swallow experimentally. “My throat is still sore but not bad. My headache is almost gone. And I’m not chilling, so I don’t think I have to worry about a fever.” I sit up, letting the blanket fall down into my lap—the memory of his fingertips tucking it around me makes heat rise to my cheeks.
Hunter nods, his gaze dropping and then shooting right back up, a flush dusking his jaw. I glance down and groan. I didn’t tie my robe tight enough again, and this time even more of my scar is visible. I quickly pull it up higher. “Sorry about that. Again.” I should probably stop wearing this robe around him. But then again, I wasn’tplanningon seeing him when I put it on, so it’s not really my fault he keeps getting an eyeful of my scarred sternum—the opposite of attractive.
“You don’t need to apologize for your scar. It’s fine. I mean, notfine; it’s—You are ... I shouldn’t ... Do you need water? I’ll go get you some water.”
He beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen, and I’m surprised to find myself smothering a laugh. It’s the first time I’ve smiled—let alonelaughed—in days. The puckered red flesh on my chest does little to increase my appeal, but it’s hysterical to me that it somehow flustered himthatmuch.
My amusement quickly fades as I reach for my phone, checking for any messages or calls from my mom. Nothing. I fire off a quick text asking about Farmor and then set it back down on the couch next to me.
This time, it takes a lot longer than I would expect for Hunter to get a glass of water. When he finally walks into the room, his expression is unreadable. He holds a glass and a plate with toast. “I thought you should probably get something in your stomach. If you don’t like toast, I can make scrambled eggs or go grab you some soup?”
“This is great, thank you.” I take the plate and glass from him. His continued kindness threatens to slip even further past my defenses, a tender tug that could become a bruise all too easily.ThisHunter is a very real threat to my heart. How long will this last before he shuts me out again?
He is careful to lookonlyat my face as he sits back down in the armchair.
“I’m decent now,” I say knowingly as I take a sip of water.
Hunter’s mouth twitches. “At least it wasn’t a Super Bowl–level wardrobe malfunction,” he deadpans.
“What?” I’m so shocked I choke-laugh on my water, sending it into my nose, which then makes mesnort-laugh, which shockshim, and suddenly, we’re both laughing. Once we start, we can’t stop. It turns into the kind of no-holds-barred laughter that makes your abs hurt and your heart grow two sizes too big. The kind of laughter that is somehow healing,especially after nonstop anxiety and worry and lack of sleep for far too long.
But eventually, the moment passes, and our laughter fades away, leaving us to catch our breath.
“Would it be the worst thing in the world to be friends?” I ask.
The curve of Hunter’s mouth flattens. I regret the question immediately.
He clears his throat and pushes a hand through his thick, brown hair that he wears long enough to help cover his reconstructed left ear. “I’m a lousy friend.”
“If this is you being a lousy friend”—I gesture to everything surrounding me: the washcloth, cup of water, plate of toast, blanket he put on me—“then what do you consider agoodfriend?”
“It’s ... complicated.”
“I get complicated. My entire life is complicated.”
Hunter’s lips flatten. “Notthiskind of complicated.” His knee starts to bounce. His fingers clench around his thigh. “Look, Olivia, you deserve the truth from me. Ever since my accident, I get in these ... moods. Times when I know I’m being a complete jerkface, or whatever you said the other day. But I can’t seem to stop. And that’s exactly why Ican’tbe your friend.” He stares down at the carpet, leaving me free to study his face. A muscle tightens in his jaw.
“A true friend would understand that we all have bad days,” I say quietly.
He glances up, his eyes haunted. “Not like I do. You don’t want to see me at my worst. Trust me.”
“Haven’t you ever heard, ‘If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best’?”
Hunter is silent.
“I have a feeling your worst isn’t as bad as you think and your best is a lot more than you give yourself credit for.” I’m close enough to him that if I reach, I could place my hand on top of his. But I don’t, even though I’m starting to wonder how much of the constant tension hovering over him is actually loneliness.
“Whoever said that has definitely not met me.”
“I don’t believe it,” I challenge him. “You’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve clearly been through something terrible. But I know what it’s like to—”
“Stopsaying you know what it’s like!” Hunter cuts me off, vaulting to his feet so abruptly it startles me. “I know you’ve been through some hard stuff too—that you’re going through hard stuff again right now. But you didn’t do it to yourself—and you didn’t do it to anyone else.Idid. Before you insist on being friends, you better realize who you’re asking to be friends with.” He towers over me, his hands balled at his sides. “I wasn’t in some unfortunate freak accident. I told you I’m not a monster, but that was a lie. Iama monster. I’m the monster who drove drunk with his little sister in the car. I’m the monster who crashed. I’m the monster who spent months in the hospital getting skin grafts to hide the scars from the engine explosion thatkilledher as a reminderevery minuteofevery freaking daythat I survived and she didn’t—because ofme.”
I sit in stunned silence.
