“Don’t.”
He looks at me and then around the space, noticing that it’s practically cleared out but a few boxes stacked near the kitchenette, along with my garment bags. “Where’s all your stuff?”
I shake my head. “Nope. You don’t get to ask questions. What are you doing here, Jack?”
He steps closer, so that my outstretched hand, meant to stop him from coming closer, is flattened on his chest. I push him off, but instead of staying back, he holds it there. I can feel his heart racing, his chest moving wildly up and down beneath it. My anger starts to crack.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I know I’m fucking this up.” He lowers his voice. “I just keep fucking things up by what I do or don’t do.” He rubs the back of his neck and pulls at his hair, so visibly frustrated with himself. “I’m trying to be there for the people that need me. But I can’t stay away from you any longer. Look at me.”
I keep my eyes on his hands instead. I don’t want to look at him, because he’s either going to kiss me or tell me goodbye, and both of those things I’m not prepared for. I don’t have the bad bitch energy I need for a confrontation like this. I want to be mad at him. I want to be understanding. I want to run away. I want to run into his arms. I’m all over the map and I have no idea what’s right.
“Look at me, beautiful.”