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But it’s also the truth.
If the alternative was never talking to him again? Never touching him again? I couldn’t live that way, voluntarily walk away, having experienced being with him and knowing what it was like.
He’s the person with the power to hurt me most in the world.
Even hearing about my parents’ divorce didn’t invoke this level of devastation. They’ll always be in my life individually. No matter what happens between them, they’ll always be my mother and father.
If Holden and I end, there’s no guarantee he’ll be anything in my life. Nothing more than my best friend’s brother, at least.
And I can’t imagine anything more crippling than that—having all of him and then going back to anything less.
Anger is harder to hold onto when I accept that inevitability.
I’m still upset and hurt though.
I sit up, reaching down and picking up the plastic cup I poured before coming up here to brood. Take a sip and gag because I wasn’t exactly measuring. It tastes like straight tequila.
Maybe it is. I can’t remember if I put anything else in here.
When I glance over at Holden again, he’s already looking at me.
I clear my throat and stand, rounding the side of the bed until I’m standing right in front of him. His forearms flex but he doesn’t reach for me. His head tilts back to meet my gaze.
We stay like that. Me standing and him sitting.
So many emotions expanding in the air between us they feel like a third presence.
I’m not really sure what to say. How to vocalize the conclusion I just came to. Everything we’ve already overcome and everything we will still face seems like smaller obstacles after my little epiphany.
Inevitability is scary and reassuring.
His blue eyes scan my face, filled with worry and silent questions.
I keep waiting for him to speak first. Of the two of us, he’s the one who owes explanations.
I take another sip of tequila, making a face when the smoky liquor burns my throat.
Then I remember why he’s not saying a word.
I step into him, his knees parting to let me in closer. Drag my fingers through his messy hair, the red cup teetering dangerously close to spilling in my loose grip.
“Stop doing things I’ll have to forgive,” I whisper. “Because I’ll hate you a little more, every time.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Nods.
“Remember that party in high school? The one Harrison invited me to? If I’d been in bed with him upstairs, even if nothing else happened, how would you have felt?”
“I would have punched him instead of that cabinet.”
My eyes fall to his right hand. His fist is clenched, the white scars on his knuckles evidence of the many times Holden has chosen violence.
“Look at me, Cassia.”
I raise my gaze slowly, reluctantly, worried poking a sore spot from our past was the last thing this conversation needed. “You have every right to be pissed at me. If you don’t want to talk to me or look at me, I’ll respect that. But I need you to know I love you and I’m in love with you and that won’t ever change.”
A huge lump appears in my throat. “It could,” I whisper. “Lots of people fall out of love.”
“We’re not lots of people, flower. We’re not your parents. We’re us.”
