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“Doesn’t have to be. You have epilepsy. There. Simple.”
“Having epilepsy isn’t simple.”
“But telling someone is.”
“For someone who doesn’t have it, maybe.”
He shakes his head as if I don’t understand. But I do. I get it more than anyone. If anything, I’m offended he thinks I don’t.
“It isn’t a crutch, Kate. If anything, it only made me like you more.”
The topic hits way too close to home as I busy myself with the cookies, using a spatula to set them on the cooling rack while avoiding his gaze entirely.
“And how has epilepsy only made you like me more?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“Because it proves you aren’t breakable.”
“No, it proves I’m already broken.”
A dark laugh laced with exhaustion slips out of him as he shakes his head. The cookie dough forgotten, he mirrors my stance, folding his arms and resting his hip against the counter, leaving barely a few inches between us. “A broken girl wouldn’t get back up again after being kicked down, Kate. And yet, here you are.”
Yeah, here I am. Barely holding it together in his house at the mere mention of my condition. Hell, barely holding it together, period. I don’t like talking about this. I don’t like the reminder of the massive weight on my shoulders all. The. Time.
And here he is, making it sound so simple. So matter-of-fact. He thinks I’m not broken? That I don’t know why Wes broke up with me? That I don’t know how hard it will be to let my guard down and fall in love with someone or have someone fall in love with me despite my baggage? It’s bullshit. Total. Complete. And utter. Bullshit.
Yet here I am under his roof, thinking maybe, just maybe, I could try having a relationship with him.
Bullshit.
I kind of want to cry at the reminder of how messed up my life can feel sometimes, but I swallow back the lump in my throat and stare at the cooling cookies instead.
“Do you have an extra cooling rack?” I whisper, praying he doesn’t notice the slight hitch in my voice or how close I am to crying.
Seriously. What the hell is wrong with me?
He opens the cabinet behind me, and I step to the side, giving him more room as he rummages through the cupboard. The distance doesn’t stop his scent from washing over me, from teasing me, no matter how annoyed I am. Our fingers brush against each other as he hands me the wire rack, but I ignore the jolt of adrenaline as I set it down next to the stove, my gaze never leaving his. “Thanks.”
We work in silence for a few minutes, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for the handful of minutes where I can rein in my emotions. Where I can shove down the helplessness and focus on something else. Ingredients. Measurements. Order. Anything to keep my feelings at bay. To keep my exhaustion from ruining this moment.
Because I hate epilepsy. I hate how it knows how to ruin everything. Like a constant, thick haze of bullshit contaminating everything it touches. Even the carefree moments like this one. The moments where I almost feel normal. Even if only for a minute. And I know it isn’t Mack’s fault. I know he cares. But what he doesn’t understand is his genuine curiosity will only hurt me in the long run because by the time he has his answers, he’ll be bored, and I’ll be tossed aside.
And I’m tired of being tossed aside.
Once a fresh batch of homemade cookies is in the oven, and the Pillsbury ones are set nicely on a plate, I start to step around Mack, but he grabs my bicep, keeping me in place. It’s as if the silence is suffocating him as much as it’s starting to suffocate me, and he can’t take it anymore.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and throaty in the otherwise silent kitchen.
I shake my head. “It’s fine.”
“It isn’t fine. I hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. And it’s not okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have overstepped my bounds.” He rubs his thumb gently against my bare skin, adding, “You’re a catch, Kate. You’re beautiful. Smart. Kind.”
“I’m hardly a catch.”
“You have no fucking idea,” he mutters, his attention bouncing around my face. “I hate the idea of you thinking epilepsy could overshadow any of those things. Yes, you have epilepsy, but it isn’t your identity.”
