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“Want to fuck?”
“That’s a given.”
“Care about?”
“Exactly. And I can’t care about anyone. Bad for me, worse for them.” I stared into the flames that clung to ashen wood while the breeze tried to blow them out. “It’s stupid. And too soon. I didn’t come here to immediately have my every waking thought hijacked by someone I’ve only known for a few days.”
Ronan’s eyes widened.
“No, it’s not Miller,” I said, laughing. “And I hate to break your heart, but it’s not you either.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that the guy in question is not my type, to put it mildly. An All-American good boy. Warm, gooey, everyone loves him. He’s the human equivalent of a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“So?”
“So? It doesn’t make sense. And yet I can’t stop thinking about him and feeling guilty, because…I may have said some things I shouldn’t have.”
Ronan took a pull of beer. “I’m shocked.”
“Oh, shut up. But yes, I stirred up some shit for him that I had no business stirring. I even gave him my number in the event he wants to talk. To me. As if I could actually help somehow.” I shook my head with a dry laugh. “It’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“I’m not one hundred percent positive that he and I are on the same page, if you catch my drift. I need to leave it alone. Leave him alone.”
Ronan rolled his eyes and chucked a rock into the fire.
“You disagree?”
“If you care about him—”
“Let’s not go that far.”
“—then tell him.”
“That proves difficult, since he specifically asked that I never speak to him again. And even if by some miracle he were gay, nothing good can come of something with me. Except for sex. I can do meaningless sex.” I glanced at him. “That’s not an offer, by the way.”
Ronan didn’t crack a smile.
I took a sip from my flask, wishing the bite of vodka would kill that soft feeling in my stomach that had been living there since the day I met River.
The fire flared suddenly as Ronan spewed lighter fluid over the charred embers. “Is that what they stole from you in Alaska?”
“What…?”
“You said nothing good could come of you being with that guy. Is that what they taught you? That you’re no good?”
The doctors at the sanitarium had discussed the conversion therapy more than I ever wanted to discuss it, with convoluted terms and jargon and analysis. Ronan cut it down to its most essential element.
“Yes,” I said. “But it began earlier with my parents. And it’s more complicated—”
“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Ronan snapped. “Whoever made you think that, no matter when it started, it’s bullshit.”
He drained his beer and got up for another. He came back with two and stood over me, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. He offered one of the beers to me.
I took it and put the flask away.
