Page 81 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Ooookay,” I say, waiting for him to explain what that has to do with me.

“That second kill I should’ve done,” he finally says. “If I’d gone through with it, I would’ve had to disappear. And for a second, I imagined you disappearing with me.”

I snap to attention. “What happened? Who are we killing?”

“Nobody.” He laughs softly, so at least my bloodthirstiness still appeals to him. “But it wasn’t fun realizing I don’t know you. That I couldn’t find you even if I wanted to.”

“So get to know me now.” A pleading whine creeps into my voice, but I don’t care. “Take the mask off.”

He catches my hand when I start to reach for him.

“I want that. You have no idea how much, killer.” His voice is tortured. “I want to take these off and be fully…”

“Ourselves,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he whispers back. “I used to think you were the best chance for that.”

“And now?” My lower register slips entirely as I process what he’s really saying.

He slides a hand up my back, unknowingly caressing the scar tissue that always sends confusing messages to my brain. Tonight, it’s hypersensitive, and I shiver.

“The thing is, this isn’t me,” he says. “I mean, it is. But I’m not always this.” He gestures at his black clothes.

“You think this is always me?” I laugh, sharp and unamused. Gomez was supposed to sweep me into his arms and make me forget any feelings but the ones I have for him. He did it for me the previous two times, so why not now, when I actually need him?

I shift again, trying to get closer, but he easily holds me in place, his arms showing no signs of strain.

“We could take the masks off and try,” I say. “Be this and those other things. Just tell me your name. Bore me with details about your day job. Bring me roses when you pick me up for dinner in your… your beige cardigan.” I wave a frustrated hand through the air. “Please. I want that.”

I don’t care that I’m begging. But I do care that Gomez reels back.

“Is that your type? Boring conversation and an ugly sweater?”

Why did I choose those, out of all hypothetical things he could be in our regular lives? “I-I don’t know,” I stammer. “I just thought this was something we both wanted.”

He lifts his fingers to the bridge of his nose like he’s expecting to find something there.

“It was.” He lets his hand drop.

“Was.” I all but fling myself off his lap.

It’s his ponies-and-pedestals woman, I just know it. He’s choosing his perfect girl who can’t ever know him fully.

“Morticia.” His warm voice is right behind me, and when I turn around, he’s standing so close that I practically collide with him. It forces me to look way, way up to meet his eyes, and I give a helpless little laugh.

“God, you take up too much space.”

The familiar complaint slips right out, and he gives an answering chuckle. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to…”

He staggers back a step, then another, his eyes widening in shock.

His blue, blue eyes. The ones that send warm pinwheels spinning in my chest when they crease into a smile at our mailboxes.

“You,” I whisper. “You’re…”

My detonating brain struggles to catch up with my heart and my body. Had it been protecting me from what I knew on a cellular level all along, but would never have let myself believe?

“Your voice.” He lurches forward and grabs me, his fingers digging into my upper arms. “Say it again.”