Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“This is what I’m talking about,” he said. “You refuse to talk about anything personal.”
“Sure,” I replied, refusing to back down even though we were both dripping all over the floor. “It bugs me that he didn’t care about Etta. Of course it did.”
“Then why pretend it doesn’t?”
“Because it doesn’t change anything,” I shot back. “Me whining about it doesn’t change a goddamn thing!”
“It’s okay to be mad.”
“I’m not mad!”
“Then what are you?” he asked softly.
“I’m sad,” I gritted through my teeth. “Okay? It makes me so goddamn sad for her.”
“It’s okay to be sad about it.”
“I know that,” I shot back.
“It’s okay to talk about.”
“Why in the hell would I want to do that?”
“Because I need you to,” he replied, his eyes steady on mine.
“Why?”
“Because I want to take care of you.”
I scoffed. I couldn’t help it. I’d been taking care of myself for as long as I could remember. Did my dad and sister have my back? Without question. Did I ask them for anything? Never.
“I take care of myself.”
“Letting me in doesn’t make you weak,” Trevor continued.
“I never said it did.”
I twisted to grab us some towels, then brought mine to my face, blocking him out. This whole conversation was making my stomach twist with anxiety.
“Look at me,” he ordered. “Now, Morgan.”
I dropped the towel so I could meet his eyes. What I saw there wasn’t what I’d expected.
“I’m in love with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re so damn willing to help everybody. I tell you I got into an argument with my mom, and you instantly go soft and ask if I want to talk about it, but the minute I tell you how I feel about you, you stiffen and change the subject.”
“Those are two completely different situations.”
“I realize that,” he said easily, drying himself off. “Your reactions are constant, though.”
“Why are we even talking about this?” I asked in annoyance, reaching for the door handle.
“Because,” he hissed, his hand flying out to grip my wrist, “you won’t let me help you. You deflect the minute I get too close.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Jesus Christ, Morgan,” he spat, his other hand slapping loudly on the countertop. “Maybe I fucking need to help you.”
“What?” I said, surprise making my voice higher than normal.
“I’m in love with you,” he said again, his voice loud in the small bathroom. “All right?”
“Okay,” I replied almost inaudibly.
“Finally,” he told the ceiling. “I’m getting through.”
“That’s not funny,” I retorted.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not.”
He let me leave the bathroom, and I walked without a word to my bedroom and closed the door behind me. Etta was still sleeping as I got dressed, but I checked on her anyway, just to stall for time. I wasn’t quite sure how I was supposed to respond to anything Trevor had said.
Did I love him? I wasn’t sure. I could picture myself with him. I missed him like crazy when he wasn’t with me, and I wondered constantly what he was doing. I hated the thought of him with someone else, and imagining him hurt or upset made my chest ache with sadness. I would put his happiness before my own. Was that love? I’d never been in love, so I couldn’t be sure. It didn’t feel like the way I loved my family.
I cared about him, though. I knew that much.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” I said meekly when I found him in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“Baby,” he sighed, turning to look at me. “We weren’t fighting.”
“It felt like fighting.”
“It wasn’t.” He walked toward me and slid his hand down the back of my hair, kissing my forehead. He took my hand and led me to the couch, pulling me down beside him when we got there. “I don’t understand why you do it,” he began, tucking me in against his side. “But for some reason, you have a very easy time helping others but deflect anytime someone wants to know how you’re doing.”
“It just rubs me the wrong way,” I replied. It was easier to talk with him when we weren’t making eye contact. It felt safer somehow. More impersonal.
“Okay,” he said, pausing for a moment. “But I need you to let me in.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m beginning to understand that,” he said with a sigh.
“Honestly,” I said, staring at the picture of me and Miranda across the room. “I have no idea what you want from me.”
“A few answers?” he asked.
I swallowed as I stared at that photo of me and my sister, then finally nodded.
“Are you glad I’m here?” he asked.
I nodded again. That question was easy. No matter the circumstances or where we were, I was always glad when he was near.
“Did you miss me?”
I nodded again. Even when I’d deliberately thought of something else in order to function, I’d always missed him. I didn’t have to be thinking about him to miss him; it was just a constant, like breathing.