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A little warmer.
“If we’re friends, you don’t have to do that,” he points out. “You can talk to me too. You can tell me if I hurt you.”
You have no idea how much.
I have to screw my lids together, or my eyes are going to start stinging. The punch from that night is a bruise that’s still tender.
I draw a shaky breath, force my eyes open, and make myself look at him. He’s shifted to lean on his hand—and he leans closer to me across the basket, watching me so intently I almost melt into the beach.
“Being rejected by someone after having sex like that would hurt anyone, August.” I force myself to be honest, but here I am, deflecting the same way I smile and trying to distance myself from the bad feelings. “I know it’s not about me. It’s not personal. You’d have done that with anyone.”
I don’t know if I want him to deny it.
I don’t know if I want him to say it’s personal, because that would mean there’s something about me that’s wrong—or maybe there isn’t, and that’s what it was about.
I don’t know.
I don’t want my heart lodged in my throat while he taps his knuckles against his lips, thinking hard.
“It was still unforgivably cruel. I’m still sorry. You deserved more respect then, not later. Also, you didn’t need to force me to say what I’ve been wanting to say all this time. My piss-poor communication shouldn’t cost your feelings. You deserve better than my bullshit, Elle.”
This time my smile is small but genuine.
Sometimes August’s honesty hurts.
But sometimes it’s the balm I need, especially when I know he means every word.
“I forgive you anyway,” I say, pulling my legs up to wrap my arms around my knees and watching the waves. The sun shines so brightly along the shore, turning the water silver, with the scent so sharp and cool. “Thank you, though.”
“You shouldn’t be thanking me. I fucked with your head.”
“But you said something important. Maybe I had to drag you out here and make you face me to hear it, but you didn’t make me bring it up. Most men would. They know they were assholes, but they’ll ignore it and hope you won’t say anything because if you do, you’re the one who looks like she’s starting fights just to be a shrill bitch. And suddenly you feel bad for being upset and end up letting it go. All because he’s looking at you in that special way that makes you feel like you’re the problem.”
Oops.
I hadn’t meant to say all that. It leaves my throat tight.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting him to say in response, but I definitely don’t anticipate the tanned hand slipping across my vision to touch the back of my wrist.
No fire, no sparks this time.
Just companionship, one caring human being to another.
“Sounds like you’ve known some shitty men,” August whispers as his hand withdraws.
“Yeah. I guess I didn’t realize just how shitty until now.”
“Anyone specific?”
“No, not really.” I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, stealing it back before the wind throws it across my cheek. “Just the usual parade of high school boys, college boyfriends, postcollege dudes who date like they’re still in college ...” I lace my hands together over my calves, bare in a bright blue-and-white checker-print dress with long sleeves, a tight bodice, and a ruffled A-line flare. “They all kind of blur together after a while.” I realize how that sounds and clear my throat, darting him a look. “Not that I’ve dated like fifty guys or anything. It’s only been about ... five? Some of them I wouldn’t even call boyfriends. Just bad first dates.”
August just watches me now with that gentleness back in his eyes, that warmth—and a hint of amusement. When I realize he’s been watching me that way the whole time, I recoil and look away, huffing.
“Elle,” he says—soft but pointed.
“Stop looking at me.”
“Elle.”
