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“That’s right.”
“All by yourself.”
“I’ve got Scarlett.”
“And you’re so great with her,” she says. “Like, really great. It’s honestly shocking how great you are with her.” She goes quiet for a moment. “But don’t you want more than that?”
“More than Scarlett?”
“No, not exactly, but more, I don’t know, more a part of the team? To have friends? To fall in love? I mean, don’t you want more?”
I draw in a breath. “Be a little selfish to want more, don’t you think?”
Eloise presses her lips together, and her sister’s warning fades into the background. She meets my eyes. “You’re never going to feel like you fit anywhere if you don’t let other people in.”
“My life isn’t about letting people in, Eloise,” I say, a little more firmly than I intend to. “You wouldn’t understand.”
She narrows her gaze. “Try me.”
I shake my head. “Feelings and emotions make you weak. Focus makes champions.” If it sounds like I’m reciting, it’s because I am. I’ve heard that stupid phrase for over half my life.
“And you can’t be focused if you care about people? Or if you admit you need other people?”
When my father barked those words at me, they had a very specific meaning, but hearing her question them stirs up underlying doubt that I usually stuff away.
She watches me, as if waiting for me to explain, but I can’t. I don’t have a response—not one that she’ll understand—and it instantly sets my nerves on edge.
“Is that what you’re saying?”
I don’t like to be analyzed. Or prodded.
“Gray, answer the question. I think it’s impor—”
“Are you really the best person to be giving advice on this topic?” I snap. “How well has caring about people worked out for you?” My words, like my tone, are cold. Expected. And I regret them instantly.
She freezes, her mouth still open, mid-sentence. She closes her mouth, then nods a few times, smoothing her hands over her lap in broad strokes.
“Right.” She stands, a fake smile on her face. “Your suit is hanging up in the closet, ready to go, and I packed all the toiletries and everything. You shouldn’t have a hard time finding it all.”
Why? Why do I do this? It’s like I know what to do, and I still do the wrong thing.
Everything inside of me is screaming at me to stop her. To apologize for being an idiot. Again. To tell her that this is what I do when things get confusing or emotional or deep—I push people away.
But I don’t say any of those things.
Instead, I watch her zip her coat and pull on a stocking cap.
And I just sit there, listening as she starts to ramble.
“I forwarded you all the details for the fabric softener photoshoot. We’ll have to coordinate a few things because of Scarlett, but it’s still a few weeks or so away. And I didn’t post anything on your social media today even though I really wanted to because I think it’s a great idea, and I think a lot of your fans only see you as one thing, and you’re just a lot more than . . .” Her voice trails off, and she looks around like she’s lost something in the ether.
She straightens.
“I should get going because I have to be back here super early for Scarlett. I probably should’ve driven myself to Loveland earlier, I just wasn’t thinking.”
She pauses, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t, because I already feel stupid. Saying more would only make it worse, so I just stand there.
“You don’t have anything to say?” she asks, pointedly.
