“The internet. I Googled it.”
Humiliation heats my face, burns the tips of my ears, the back of my neck. I never thought this… thing can get any better, never thought to tell anyone outside of this household—not when my family keep telling me I’m a nut case.
Never thought Nate would see me like this. This is a new fucking low.
“Get out,” I whisper.
I want to howl with despair, crawl under a bed and hide. I’ve dreamed of Nate coming back, only to have him witness this shit.
“West.”
“Go.”
“I’m not leaving.” He crouches down beside me, and when I finally make myself look at his face, he’s not laughing at me, and he’s not scared of me. “Listen to me, West. I’m not perfect, either. You know that.”
I’m not sure what I know anymore. I thought I had an idea, but turns out I know little about Nate. And I’m not asking him again why he withdrew from me. At first I’d sent him texts and called and tried to figure it out, but he never replied. I’ve been so fucking depressed, so alone, and then so fucking pissed at the motherfucker for being able to let go of me so casually, so easily.
When I was left bleeding inside.
But now I can’t help but take a closer look at his haunted eyes, his exhausted, thin face. “Maybe? You doing okay now?”
“No, I’m not.”
The admission hits me square in the chest. He’s never admitted to anything wrong before, ever.
“What’s the matter?”
“Everything, man.” He slides down to the floor, rests his back against the tiled wall. “I just… can’t pretend I’m okay anymore. And I can’t lie to you. That’s why I kept my distance.” He gives me a long, exhausted look. “I knew I’d tell you everything if I sat down beside you. And yet here I am. I didn’t want you to see, didn’t want you to know.”
“Know what?”
“That I’m not perfect. Not strong enough. Not determined enough.”
“What are you talking about? You’re the strongest person I know.”
“No… that’s BS, man. I’m a coward. I’m filth. I’m—”
I get down to the floor, to my knees, and grab him around the neck, burned hands or not, press his head to my shoulder. “Shut up. You’re none of that.”
He jerks—then his arms come around me and he hugs me hard. “Fucking hell, West, you’re the only one,” he breathes against my T-shirt.
“The only what?”
“The only one who can grab me like that and not get a fist to their gut. Jesus.” He breathes out, his hands fisting against my back. “I’m so fucked. Fucked in the head.”
It makes me want to laugh and groan at once. “All the best guys are.”
“You dickwad.” A shaky snicker. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it goes.”
“Nate…” Holding him feels so right.
He’s the only guy I’ve ever hugged, and I missed this. I missed him. Except for Syd, nobody else ever touches me. My mind sort of sighs as we sit there, and the blessed silence inside my head is so complete I wanna fucking cry.
Eventually he pulls back, but not by much. He’s gazing at me, head cocked to the side. His hand drifts up to my head, tugs on the ends of my short hair.
He seems to be looking for something in my expression, and maybe he finds it, because he nods to himself. “Okay,” he says.
To what, I’ve no clue.