Page 39 of The Apparent Trap

“I wasn’t trying to confuse you.”

“I know.”

“Then or now.”

“I know,” I admit, that part currently perfectly clear, even if everything else feels like muddy water. “But you’re right that whatever this thing is between us . . . it can’t happen.”

“I know,” he echoes, sadly. “Trust me, I’ve known that since the day we re-met.”

“Okay, so don’t keep trying to hug me or whatever you’re doing,” I point out. “It’s not . . . helpful.”

His eyes lock with mine, like he’s finally realizing that maybe he’s affecting me as much as I’m affecting him. We’re back in that staring contest, although this time everything’s out on the table and there’s no pretense anymore that either person doesn’t want to look.

But neither of us backs away. All the reasons why we can’t are out there—Carmen, my dad, work—and yet . . . it can’t hurt to look? I hate how much I want to look. I’ve spent so many weeks cursing this stupid man, and now all I can do is admire every new angle that I haven’t noticed before.

“You’ve got to stop looking at me like that,” he says, as though he can read my mind. He takes a step back, like he’s not sure it’s a good idea anymore to be this close.

I’m still sitting on the counter, hands wrapped around the edges, my heartbeat thrumming. “You’ve got to stop trying to hug me every time you somehow trip up my thoughts and start a word avalanche out of my mouth.”

He chuckles. “It’s not on purpose.”

“Well . . .” I hop off the counter. “Maybe it’s out of our system now. Like, by acknowledging the past we can move forward and focus on what matters.”

“That’s very kumbaya of you.”

I shrug and walk toward the door. “Thank you for the BLTs.”

“What about the entire Thanksgiving?” he jokes.

“Sure, fine, thanks for the demented, underhanded, conniving Thanksgiving that didn’t even work but had great food, nonetheless.”

His smile is soft and only to one side. “Somehow that’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

I grab my coat from the closet. “I hope for your sake that’s not true.”

I get that sense—like I’ve had the past few weeks but clearly haven’t understood—that his instinct is to reply with a snappy comeback, but that he’s holding himself back. I wonder how much he’s been holding back with me.

And I don’t know whether to be sad that when this night is over, those walls are apparently going back up, for both of our sakes.

“Well, good night, then,” I say, trying to look past his shoulder so I don’t have to actually see what his expression is.

But instead he holds out his hand, as though I’m once again a colleague about to shake it.

I immediately, on instinct, take a big step back—even his hand seems like kryptonite. “I really do think we have to agree not to touch,” I stumble out, the thought of having my hand on his tonight too much to even fathom.

He looks down. His hand is still held out, but based on how he’s looking at it, it’s as though he’s seeing the whole picture there. And he pulls back.

He clears his throat. “I think you’re almost certainly right.”

The gravel in his voice makes my stomach drop. I turn around and pull my coat on, my movements automatic as my body screams at me to look back at him and cut through this tension that’s practically eating me alive.

I can’t, though. If I look right at him, I’m worried I’ll forget every good reason to stay far away from Lee Morgan.

“Thanks for Thanksgiving,” I blurt out.

“You already said thanks.” There’s a smile in his voice.

“Well, you can never have enough thanks.”