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“This library was the only place I felt like I could be myself when I was a kid. The only place I could go and just be me. Most of the time, though, I could only do that alone. Dad … when he caught me with my nose in a book, if it wasn’t the classics, or economics, or law, or something he cared about, then I was doing something wrong.” He takes a moment, and this feels vital somehow, so I don’t speak up. “I figured out that reading in here meant he wasn’t likely to bother me, which made it the perfect place for me to read all those sensitive books, he called them. You know, books for kids, like The Hardy Boys and Harry Potter. Things he didn’t give a shit about but taught kids how to be?—"
“Kind?”
Anderson nods. “He thought all of that was a waste of time.”
I am so confused. “But the way you treated me?—"
“Was unforgiveable. Which is why I understand why you feel the way you do about me. I more than earned it.”
“But if you knew better, then why did you do it? All this time, I thought it was because your dad neglected you?—"
“Oh, he did.” He sits on the edge of the table behind the chairs. “He was rarely around, and the few times he was, he spent them belittling what I liked. Mom told me that was just how he showed he cared, how he showed his interest in me. And I think I got it twisted that picking on people was how you express yourself, if you’re a guy. Mom is kind. Grandmother is kind. But Dad and Grandfather?” He shrugs and winces. “That is how they express themselves?—"
“Because they think being vulnerable is showing weakness.” This is making too much sense.
He nods slowly. “And Dad is this titan of business, Grandfather, too. I had these impressive, powerful men to look up to, and they treated me like shit. So, I thought that’s how impressive, powerful men were. I had no clue how to talk to someone I cared about. All these conflicting ideas … they really fucked me up.” He scrubs his hand over his face and through his dark hair, before letting out a nervous laugh. I find myself on my way to him without even thinking about it. “It’s a bullshit reason to treat someone you like so terribly, but I didn’t know how to talk to you, June. Not back then. And I hate who I pretended to be then. Hell, I hate who I wanted to be. I don’t want to be my father. A wife shouldn’t be a trophy you keep on a shelf and take out when you want something pretty to look at. My mother … god, she deserves so much more than my father has ever given her.”
The raw emotion in his voice makes a knot form in my throat. I’m standing between his feet, close enough to feel the hurt radiating off this man. It’s palpable, choking. I want to make it all better, but I need him to say the words. “Anderson?”
He rasps, “Yes?”
“You’re saying that you treated me like shit for years because you liked me?”
He takes a long breath and lets it out slowly. “Yes. And now, I hate myself even more.”
“What? Why?”
“Because here I am, whining about being a poor little rich boy to the woman whose life I have upended, when all I wanted to do was make her life better. Because I keep fucking up with you, June. It’s un?—
“Forgivable.”
“Exactly, and?—"
I take his face in my hands and pull him to me for a kiss. I’d hoped for more of a passionate embrace, but instead, all I get is a frozen Anderson. When I pull back, his eyes are enormous.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He shakes his head, blinking himself back to the present. “No, but I don’t understand why you did that. There’s no one in here for you to act for, June.”
“I’m not acting, Anderson. I like you.”
“You hate me.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Not anymore.”
“You mean that?”
I get half a nod in before he launches off the table and kisses me, wrapping me in his arms like he’s afraid I might change my mind. He slants his mouth over mine, deepening the kiss, and I don’t ever want to stop.
Chapter 32
JUNE
What am I doing? This is Anderson, the guy who … oh, fuck it.
The truth is, I don’t really have much of an answer. I can hardly think with my blood thrumming and my body melting. My nerves are shredded from the conversation with his dad and the days I spent worrying about this charade. But what if it wasn’t a charade? What if I let myself accept the truth?
I have a thing for my former bully.
