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But if he’d been there, he’d have been so preoccupied with making sure everyone was getting along, that he wouldn’t have had the fun that they did.
Was he a wet blanket?
No.
He rejected that notion immediately.
He was the rebel, the renegade, the one that got everyone in trouble.
But that wasn’t the entire picture either, was it?
“I am just now realizing that I may have some control issues,” he said out loud. To Sabine.
It was the kind of statement that should probably stay inside but it was too late for that.
She rotated slightly his direction.
“Why do think that is?” She tilted her head to the side, and his vision was drawn to the wide opening of the collar of her sweater. It exposed the tops of her shoulders and her entire collarbone. Skinny black straps disappeared into the sweater and he wondered if it was the same silky tank top she was wearing the day they met.
He didn’t remember people’s clothes very often. But he remembered that tank top.
“I just want everyone to get along,” he said with a sigh. “I hate misunderstandings.”
“Do you think you’re capable of smoothing out all misunderstandings?”
“Yes,” he replied evenly.
Her eyebrows twitched higher. He’d surprised her.
He peeled the label on the cider. “Logically, I know that’s not realistic.” He looked back up at her. “But I still think that way.”
“It’s okay to be misunderstood,” she said, her voice soft, careful.
Everything inside of him hardened at her words. She didn’t get it. How could she?
He shook his head, disappointment flowing through him. “Nah. Misunderstandings lead to misery.”
“Or,” she touched his arm, calling his eyes back to hers. “Misunderstandings are a place to learn more.”
Again, everything inside him rebelled against that idea. But she looked at him with such calm assurance that he couldn’t help questioning his own convictions.
“People don’t want to learn more,” he argued, still holding tight to his irritation.
“Don’t I know it,” she agreed. Then those hazel eyes—those fucking swirls of green and brown and gold that made him feel like the dumbest, most important piece of shit in the world—scanned his face. She was looking at his tattoos.
And for the first time since he’d started tattooing his face, he wished he hadn’t.
“I think the rose is my favorite,” she said finally. “But the bird is a close second.”
“Why is the rose your favorite?” he asked, shoving aside his insecurities and focusing on the curve of her collarbone and how much he wanted to touch it.
“It’s classic.” She shrugged, her sweater dropping just a little more off her shoulder.
“Do you have any tattoos?” he asked, craning his neck like he was looking for what he suspected didn’t exist. “I haven’t seen any.”
Her lips twisted to the side as she glanced away.
“Wait. That looks like you have a secret,” he teased.
