“This can’t happen. I don’t want…” I say as I struggle to keep my chin from shaking.
“Liar,” he whispers back.
“Henry, you need to forget about what we were before,” I whisper back. Anything louder, and I’ll crumble.
He moves even closer. “I can’t,” he says as he pounds his fist against his chest, over the tattoo, over his heart. “It won’t let me.”
The air is punched out of me. Whatever remained in my lungs left with that confession. Tears streak down my face. There’s no reason to try to hold them back anymore; the emotions that made them fall have swirled around so vigorously that keeping them away is impossible. But I can’t fall apart right now. I keep my eyes trained on his, telling myself that falling anymore will only end in something I truly can’t handle. I don’t want to leave, but this dance we keep doing is only hurting us both.
I put my hands on his chest and push him away. I need space if I’m going to get through this. My only option is to push him away enough that the blurred lines of who we are and what we want from one another become crystal clear. We are only acquaintances, and the only way to remain there is for him to want nothing to do with me. To stop searching for the woman with the bright disposition and carefree, charming wit. To stop looking for the parts of me that are no longer the same. The thought makes my breath shudder. For him to stop. I hate it. But it has to happen.
His proximity is daunting. He’s still too close. I want to snake my arms around his middle and hold on. I want the illusion of safety that he emanates to be a permanent fixture on my skin. But I’m not living a life of wants anymore, only one of survival, and some version of palatable contentment.
“Look at me,” Henry says softly. His version of soft, at least. A gravelly whisper that manages to roll from my ears down my neck and arms. I can only stare at his chest. I bite back my emotions. Bristle at the tender feelings that linger and make this clear. That it’s not going to happen for us. Tell him a lie. That I don’t want him. Make him hear me.
He brushes his thumb below my chin, forcing me to raise my attention. “Look at me, Pixie.”
When I finally do, he looks around my face. The pain in what I need to say to him is written all over it.
“Don’t,” he says.
But I ignore the request. “Too much connects us.” He drops his hand, his fingers gone from my chin. But I continue through the longing that missing touch created. “Your sister. This town. Our past. I thought we could have a bit of fun and then call ourselves friends.”
“So that’s it. You want to be friends? How’s that supposed to work?” he spits back at me, almost as if the idea of friendship is offensive. And maybe it is, after the words he just said to me. I hate this so much.
“You didn’t let me finish.” I tip my head back more, meeting his glare. And even now, as I try to harden myself to meet his energy, I’m so drawn to him that my hands and fingers feel the absence of touching him, only grasping at the empty air around me. I study the scar above his lip, the beauty of a green iris with a splash of blue, and the perpendicular lines on his brow that remind me of the hard shell he had on the first time I saw him.
I steady myself, push out my chest, and make myself bigger, because right now I need the illusion of the upper hand if I’m going to come out of this conversation without scars of my own.
“Friendship, I take seriously. I won’t fake it with you, but I’m also not going anywhere if I can help it. I’m in this town, so I’ll be spending time with Everly, and your family. You don’t have to like it, but we have to navigate it. This gray territory we’ve been in won’t work. Friends is apparently offensive to you, so how about enemies?”
He shuffles himself closer again. I keep eye contact. Those blues and greens are an aching combination of anger and defeat. His mouth inches so close to mine that I can feel the pull. A stupid gravitational force that the universe somehow built between us. It almost hurts not to close the space, and he knows it. He waits, a breath away, to see if I’ll break. And hell do I want to. But something in the way I’m quietly pleading with him to spare me here must register, because he leans in and brushes his lips on my forehead instead.
“Done,” he says. Then he turns and walks away just as abruptly. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.
I hate the position I’m in. I hate that I can’t fall into the man I want. But that’s the thing I’ve learned about hate. It can be redirected. It’s a feeling that I’ve grown content with and, more so, I find it comforting. I know how to hate. I know how to dance around truths, and I’ll learn how to hate the man I’ve held on to.
PARTII
HATING HER
21
Giselle
It’s been nine years.Nine years since I first set foot in Strutt’s Peak. I sit in these downtown business meetings, practically breaking out in a sweat, trying to hold back from flipping off at least one person each week. The one who’s talking right now is my least favorite in this town. I still sprinkle gold glitter on her whenever she’s not looking. Typically, when she’s sulking at the counter in the diner, it’s the perfect time to walk by, drop a pinch, and sleep better at the fact that the crotchety-est of them all has a little bit of sparkle. I chalk it up to small-town boredom. Everly calls it instigating. Agree to disagree, I tell her.
“You can’t tell me that a shop like hers doesn’t bring a certainelementto our town. Just the other day, there were more than twenty motorcycles parked out all along Main Street. Taking up every single spot,” the shrillest of voices carries on. Imagine a chicken clucking and then add words. My ears should be bleeding right now.
Small towns aren’t always happy shop owners and family-friendly diners. This town is pretty badass, but we still have our fair share of locals that love nothing more than to see the half empty side of life. Ruth DeMaio is one of them. My glittery little stink-face. I can’t with this woman sometimes. It’s been nine years since I’ve been here and every season, like clockwork, this pain in the ass complains about something “I’ve done” to bring an “element” to our town. It doesn’t matter how wide open the space is here, there will always be someone too close-minded and judgmental lurking around to take a dump all over it.
She uses the Q&A session every week at our downtown business association to complain about one of us. She’s an equal opportunity hater. It’s not just me. Her sister Lenny, while she loves to gossip, is not a total asshat like Ruth. I’ve actually grown to love Lenny. Not to mention, she’s Gracie’s mom and Gracie is my brand of amazing. She needed a job to save for prom and spending money when she was in high school, and we clicked. That girl could run my tattoo shop if she wanted. Hell, she practically does while she’s home from college these days.
Last week, Ruth, in all of her sour gummy worm face glory, managed to ask Vinny at the Flower Shop if he could, and I quote, “not get the sidewalk so wet when he waters the plants in the morning. It causes her dog to then track debris back into her home.” That was my favorite, because Vinny simply told her, “No.” Nothing more, not even in a frustrated tone. A simple no, followed by squeezing his stress ball. He says it’s for his arthritis. I know it’s because he communicates with one-word answers to most people, and that level of reserve bottles up. Eventually, it has to go somewhere. I feel bad for the ball.
The door slams open, and I know who it is without even looking. There’s always at least one Riggs that attends these meetings. Usually, it’shim. After all these years, I still get a little zing every time he’s close in proximity.
“Ruth,” I interrupt.