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Well, I do most of the talking, which is not a surprise, but he does respond. He doesn’t clam up or digress or try to distract me when I ask him questions. Or rather he does it maybe twenty to thirty percent of the time, which is definitely an improvement from before.
I ask him about his childhood, his dad, his mom, his big brother. I ask him about the rumors that I used to hear at the manor and he dispels almost all of them. Because almost all of them are either exaggerated or had another layer to the story.
Like the rumors about him stealing his dad’s cars; he’d do it to get away from his dad’s abuse when he didn’t have a vehicle of his own. Or him getting caught while selling pot, because he was trying to earn money so he didn’t have to depend on his dad.
I’m not saying that he’s a saint.
I’m just saying that he’s not all sinner.
I also talk about my stuff a lot. I talk about my dreams, my books. The books that I’m reading, the books that I want to read, the books that I want to write. And I love it. I love that he listens to all the plots and the arcs of the stories. He listens and he has his own commentary to give. As in, how stupid the heroine is to chase the killer herself, or how judgmental and dumb small-town people can be.
And what a fucking relief it is.
To talk about all the things that I love without feeling guilty. Feeling as if I’m doing something wrong, something bad. Because the other person doesn’t like it.
I also tell him about my parents. How it was growing up in Brooklyn. About their struggles with money; my dad’s accident; how I’ve always tried to be a good girl for them and how they’re still mad at me for what I did. Even though me getting into NYU has helped a little, my one slip-up from two years ago is still fresh in their minds and so they still don’t trust me.
And the way he reacts is... unexpected.
“So what, do they expect you to be a good girl for the rest of your life? That’s dumb. And too much fucking pressure,” he grumbles, lying on the grass with me draped over his warm chest, shaking his head one day. “You’re allowed to fuck up. You’re allowed to be who you are without feeling guilty about it. Without feeling judged or that you’re bad.”
I didn’t think of that.
I mean, I’ve thought of that for other people but never for myself. I always thought that this is how you’re supposed to be. You’re supposed to be good and perfect for the people you love. You’re supposed to sacrifice for them. You’re supposed to keep them happy.
And if you don’t, you are bad.
You make one mistake and you’re bad.
But maybe I’m not.
Maybe I’m just… me.
And I’m allowed to be me. I’m allowed to be wild and free without feeling guilty. Without always being worried about if I’m doing everything right. Without all the pressure and compromise on my happiness.
Jupiter said the same thing, didn’t she? She said I should think about myself.
And I didn’t get it at the time.
I do now, I think.
Because of him.
I raise myself up on my elbows and look at him, speechless.
He’s got his head resting on his elbow, his biceps bunched up, and he frowns up at me. “What?”
“You’re a genius.” I go down and kiss a fading bruise. “You’re a freaking genius.”
His lips twitch. “Is that right?”
I kiss another fading bruise. “Yeah. You are. You so are. Genius.” A kiss. “Brainiac.” Another kiss. “Intellectual.” Yet another kiss. “Mastermind. Alpha geek.”
His hand shoots up and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “Not a geek.”
I grin then. “Aww, are you shy, Reign Davidson? Is it going to mess with your street cred? It’s okay.” I kiss the tip of his nose. “I won’t tell anyone how much of a geek you are. Plus I saidalphageek. Alpha. So I think you’re going to be okay. I mean —”
He shuts me up with a growling kiss.
