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“Don’t do that,” I say.
“What?” He frowns somewhere over my left shoulder.
“Apologize. I like you the way you are. Don’t adjust. I don’t want you to feel you can’t do things, or worse, that you need to hide them.”
His mouth changes to an upward curve, eyes meeting mine for the first time, and he folds his arms over his chest as he leans back in his chair.
“Okay then. Fancy heading down to where the prostitutes hang around by the river and taking some drug I’ve never tried before?”
Is this a serious question? I shrug.
“I’m happy to go with you if you want my company.”
His eyes rove over my face and my torso, and he smiles, shaking his head before coming over to the bed, pulling at the covers and climbing in beside me.Such a cuddler.
“You’re a much better person than me,” he mumbles into my hair as he curls around me.
I stiffen, turning over, but his eyes are closed. I hook my finger into the neck of his T-shirt, tugging.
“Hey you. No.” I pull on his shirt again. “No, I’m not. You have a lot of qualities that I will never have.”
“Such as?” His eyes snap open, fixed, intent.
“You’re honest.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I laugh. “You do realize that most people don’t think that way.”
“Yeah, but …”
“You’re warm, generous. You take risks with things I would never take.”
He snorts. “I’m not sure that last one is such an amazing quality.”
“Why is risk-taking a bad thing? Look at how cautious I am. And I’ve been like that all my life. My parents have been so desperate for none of us to mess up. Of course, Georgie decided to take their definition of messing up and turn it into an art form.” I say the last bit half to myself.
Fabian’s eyes narrow on me, and his gaze roams from the top of my head down to the cover.
“I’m not sure why I experiment with drugs. I’ve enough evidence of how bad it can be.” He sighs and rolls onto his back as he stares at the ceiling. “I like the crazy wildness.”
Here after so many weeks, I need to give this comment proper consideration, so I roll into his side wrapping my arm around his middle and I lie there and listen to the whirr of the computer fans.
He tips his head to look down at me. “My father murdered my mother and went to prison for it.” And just like that his whole awful history with his father comes tumbling out.
When he finishes, I don’t know what to say. How terrible must it have been to be scared like that? To live like that?
“Perhaps you got used to the adrenaline kick when you were younger, the flight or fight, and it kept you safe, living on your wits. I mean people often repeat childhood patterns.”
He studies me for a long minute.
“I’ve never thought about it like that before.”
I prop myself on my elbow.
“Addiction killed my brother,” he says.
“But drugs are not like that for you?”
