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I want to.
I want to let Dean in.
But the last time I did that, he left me high and dry.
Can I trust him now?
"You know the real story." I move forward. "I finished college, had a family problem, figured it out, begged anyone who would listen for an apprenticeship. The end."
"You're skipping over 'family problem.'"
"It's not an interesting story."
"You're not a good liar."
My shoulders tense. "Why should I tell you anything?"
"Because you want to."
That's the thing. I do. My heart is begging me to share with him. My body is on fire just from his proximity. But my head… "Last time I ignored my common sense, I went seven years without hearing from you."
He stops in a patch of shade. Leans against the hillside.
"Forgive me if I'm apprehensive about trusting you again."
"You're still thinking about that?"
"I wasn't. Until I saw you again."
His eyes find mine. "You were better off."
"I was better off crying into my pillow all of June?"
Something fills his eyes. Some realization. "I meant that much to you?"
"Yeah." I bite my lip. Here am I, awkward and vulnerable again. And here he is, aloof and in control, again. "I thought about you for three years straight. You and I… we always understood each other. Maybe we hated each other—"
"I never hated you."
"I hated you. A lot. But I always liked you."
"I love the way you hate me."
"You're disturbed."
"Yeah."
"So." I dig my toes into the dirt path. "When we went upstairs… I knew you weren't the boyfriend type. But I thought it meant something. That I meant something to you."
"You did."
"Then why didn't you ever call?" I bite my lip. This isn't how this conversation is supposed to go. I'm supposed to slap him and scream fuck you for ditching me, you asshole not stare into his eyes begging for an explanation.
I waited for him for seven years.
I'm still waiting.
I'm still under his thumb.
