“It is to me.”
That softens something for a second.
Just a second.
Then he shakes his head. “That’s not my fault.”
“Really? Because you’re the one making it feel real.”
“You’re the one letting it.”
“Because you’reconfusing me!” I blurt. “You kiss me and touch me and wrap me in your flannel and tell the whole town I’m yours, then come in here and say it’s pretend. Which is it?”
He exhales hard, like he wants to tear his own hair out. “I’m trying to make sure you get what you need.”
“What I need,” I say quietly, “might be you.”
His eyes slam shut for one second.
Then open, harder.
“That’s exactly why I gotta go,” he says.
“Unbelievable.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re running.”
“I’mleavingbefore I do something we can’t walk back from.”
“Like what,” I demand, stepping into him, chin tilted. “Like touch me? Like take me to bed? Like admit you actually give a damn?”
His gaze drops. Lingers at my mouth.
For a second—just one—I think he’s going to do it.
Iwanthim to do it.
Instead, he lets my wrist go. Steps back.
“Not like this,” he says, low. “Not angry.”
“Not angry?” I laugh, bitter. “Iamangry.”
“I know.”
“Because you made me feel?—”
“I know.”
“Clay!”
He heads for the door.
I follow. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna walk out?”
“If I stay, I’ll put you against that wall,” he throws over his shoulder, voice gone ragged, “and we both know neither of us is ready for that.”
