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The look he gave me wasn’t anuncommonone, but I still hated when I inspired frustration in him.
I didn’t want that.
I wanted theoppositeof that.
Shortly though, the exasperation so clearly written in his features shifted to tenderness, and he pulled me a little tighter. “Ay… I’ve got a serious question for you okay?”
I nodded.
“I’m not trying to be… hurtful.”
My eyebrow went up, but I nodded again.
“Do you… uh… need to go in your little bag in there?” he asked, gesturing with his head towards the inside of the cabana.
To our luggage.
My luggage.
To the little toiletry bag that contained no actual toiletries.
There was nothing unkind about it—not his tone, not the question.
But it didn't make me hate it any less.
Hate that he had to ask, hate that he might be right, hate that he'dbeenright on more than one occasion since the day I agreed to do this.
I’d been so damned hopeful.
Sonaïve.
I wasn’t completely lost in the sauce by any means, but I certainly was wobbling at the top of the dreaded spiral stairs.
Did I want that?
Of course not.
But it wasn't like I could help it, beyond following advice and instruction from my therapist. And I had been, as much as I could, but it didn't magically fix the shit.
Being in love was not a fucking cure for anxiety, as much as I might wish that was the case.
Love?
Am I in love?
Shit.
Would I be willing to doanyof this, if that wasn’t the case?
I took a deep breath before I answered his question with a shake of my head, then made a weak effort at extricating myself from his arms because this was too much.
No luck.
Instead what I got was a hand under the chin, Ky tipping my face toward his to look me in the eyes. “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” I answered immediately.
Absolutelynot.
