“Of me?”
“Of everything.”
He nods. For a long time, we’re both silent, the space between our knees wider than a canyon formed by an earthquake.
“Is it because of TNS?” he asks finally.
“Them. Astolia. Everything.”
“Shit.” His hands shake as he runs them back through his hair. “I’m so sorry. I knew we shouldn’t have…” He chokes on his words. “I knew I reminded you of them, but I still—”
“What?” I straighten, startled. “No, what the hell? It’s not your fault.”
“You just said it was.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“You said you were too scared of me.”
“No! That’s not what…” I mentally play back what we just said to each other and realize where I went wrong.“I’m not afraidofyou. I’m afraid of losing you. Loving you and then… having that ripped away.”
His eyes flick back to mine. “But you said—”
“The problem isn’t you! It’s never you. How…” I brush the tears from my face and try to see us from his point of view. “How could you possibly thinkyou’rethe problem?”
“Come on. My people killed your family, Kayla. If you never wanted to see me again—”
“I already told you that could have been Astolia. That could have been anyone. And even if it was TNS, you’re not one of them anymore. How many times do I have to spell this out? You should know by now…” The realization hits me. “Nothing I say is going to fix that, is it? You can’t help thinking everything isyourfault, no matter how long ago it was.”
“Oh shit, you sound like my therapist.” Sid rubs his temples, a weary sigh filling his lungs. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“But it’s been twelve years. How are you—after twelve years…” It never goes away. That should be the most depressing thought in the world, because if he’s still reliving the horrors of his youth, what are the chances I’ll ever put away mine? I’m afraid of losing people. He’s afraid of hurting them. Instead, it fills me with wonder, because through it all, he’s still here.
Still himself. Still, for his faults, willing to love me.
“I’m not Amy’s kind of person. I don’t even know how to imagine a life with someone like her. I don’t own a table. Twelve long, shitty years and I don’t own a table.” He gives me a wan smile. “The best twelve, shitty years of my life.”
“And what about before that? The worse years?” When he doesn’t respond right away, I rephrase my question. “You never told me about how you grew up.”
I place my hand over his. A pulse rages through the thin skin of his wrist. “It’s been a long day. Maybe—maybe we can talk about this another night—”
“Sid, you promised. You promised I could ask about it whenever I wanted.”
“I also promised I would never sleep with you,” he points out.
“Yeah, well… keep stalling and that might come true yet.”
That draws a laugh out of him, and a sliver of courage warms my chest. I thread my fingers through the cornsilk texture of his hair. “Please.”
His eyes fall away from my face. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”
“I know.” I rest my head against his shoulder, hoping the power of my touch is enough to reassure him. “But you’re never going to believe I won’t judge you for it unless you tell me.”
What if the reason I don’t know how to be happy with him is because I haven’t ever held the full weight of his grief? For so long, I’ve been drowning in my own darkness, but the idea of his doesn’t pull me down the same way. For once, maybe I can be the person in the lifeboat, offering him a hand up.
“You’ve already done so much for me. Please. Let me be here for you.”
He bends lower, pressing his forehead against mine. I could stay this way forever, I think, right before he begins to speak.
