Great, I’ve been shot, metaphorically speaking. I plop back down on the edge of the bed and rub my temples. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
The bed shifts beside me and like a fool, I don’t pull away when his arms gather me to his chest. Because who am I kidding? He’s the hurt and the comfort all rolled into one.
“What do you mean by that? That you’re perfect in every way except one?”
I take a deep, steadying breath. Anything I say at this point is going to make it worse. “I didn’t mean anything. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
When I try to pull away, his arms tighten around me. “What’s wrong?”
Okay, I’m getting angry. Men can be clueless, but not that clueless. And damn it, my next breath is accompanied by a sniffle.
“You’re crying?” he asks, appalled, gripping my biceps to hold me at arm’s length. “Oh, shit, you are crying. Did I hurt you?”
Full of despondency, I huff out, “I’m fine. Last time I checked, embarrassment never killed anyone.”
“Embarrassment?” His gaze roves over me as if it’s something visible to the naked eye. “I embarrassed you?”
I shake my head. “Nope, I managed it all on my own.”
“I’m, um, not sure what’s going on here, Opal.”
Brushing my tears away impatiently, I sigh. “Don’t worry. It’s not you. It’s me. Putting the cart before the horse. Again.”
His brows pinch together. “Tell me.”
If he wasn’t looking at me with such sincerity, I’d probably get angry. But he actually does seem dumfounded. But what can I say? I told you I loved you and you didn’t say it back. It may be the truth, but that’s not coming out of my mouth.
“I’m serious, sweetness. Tell me, so we can deal with it.”
And what if dealing with this mess I’ve created doesn’t end the way I need it to?
“Please,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s better to get it out in the open.”
I smile feebly. “How are you more mature than I am?”
“It’s one of the reasons you love m–. Oh.”
I block out the sight of his embarrassment only to feel more tears track down my cheeks. “Yeah. Oh,” I whisper, gently slipping from his grip. “But I get it.” Though the emotional side of my brain has no idea what I get. That I’m not the type of person that others love? Luckily, the logical side of my brain still works. “I get that I backed you into a corner by saying it too soon. I’m sorry for making it weird.” I head for the bathroom, wanting to escape the awkwardness and to avoid further humiliating myself with all these unwelcome emotions that are leaking out of me like I’m a sieve.
In the bathroom, I slump back against the closed door. I hate it when I get like this. Wrenching back the shower curtain, I start the water and try to rationalize that he can’t be expected to express feelings he doesn’t have. And just because he doesn’t have those feelings now doesn’t mean that he’ll never have them. Right?
The idea just unleashes another round of tears. Fuck rationalization. I can’t do it, at least not right now while everything is so close to the surface. I get in, hoping the heat of the water will soothe me before I have to go back and face him.
I hear the door open.
“Hey,” he murmurs, pushing back the curtain a bit. “Listen, sweetness, I –”
I don’t want to hear his platitudes. With my emotions attempting to drown me like they are, nothing in the world could make this better. But I have to stop him with something, and that something turns out to be a quest for an explanation. “Was I too forward with you?”
“Huh?”
“Was I too forward?” I insist on a shaky breath. “Was I too aggressive?”
“What? When?”
“I tend to run my mouth,” I explain. “My mother says that’s not an attractive quality in a woman. And I don’t have the whole innocent vibe going on, do I? I saw your face when I brought out that box of condoms. That was stupid of me, to let you see the whole box.”
“Opal, you’re not making any sense. Why don’t you get out now?”
I shake my head and wipe at my tears. “Tell me. Please. Could I have done something differently?”
“El,” he says with exasperation, shutting off the water and pulling me from the tub. “Come on.”
He wraps a towel around me and I feel my shoulders slump. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I’m being irrational, too emotional, aren’t I? It seems like I’m always too something. Too opinionated, too eager, too full of myself, too drunk. Every guy I’ve ever been with has had one for me. Nathan’s was pretty good. He said I was too stupid to see what was right in front of my face.” Scott stops trying to wring the water from my hair with a hand towel and frowns at me. “That’s not what it is for you, is it?” I ask, breathing through the stab of pain just under my ribs. “Because some of them hurt more than others.”
Even if I know I’m rambling, I can’t stop the words from spilling out of me. I’ve never told this to anyone, and now that I’ve started, I don’t have the strength to patch up the holes and dam it all up again.
“If I had to pick one for you,” I continue, “it would be something like too tall. Because I can’t do anything about how tall I am.” Sniffling, I pull back to look up at him.
“You’re not too tall, Ellie,” he says, his eyes pleading, his voice stern. “You’re perfect.”
Resentment surges. “Don’t say that!” I push away from him, letting the towel fall to the floor as I march back to the bedroom. Grabbing a tank top and pair of underwear from my dresser, I yank them on and then face him.
My indignation dissolves almost instantly when I turn. With his arms folded over his bare chest, still in just his underwear, his posture is stiff and unsure – and I hate that I’ve done that to him. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself.
“El,” he starts, “you’re not too anything, okay?”
I hold up my hand, wincing slightly. “Don’t. It’s okay. I know I’m messing this up.”
“You’re not messing anything up, sweetness,” he says, his voice laced with caution. “Just tell me where this is coming from.”
My heart thumps in my chest – one beat, two, three – and I rub at it to try to ease the throb. Maybe being honest will repair some of the damage I’ve inflicted on us. “I . . . well, when you say you’ve never been in love, I can say the same, only in reverse.”
His brows hitch down, and a trickle of optimism begins to seep into my gloom because I know him well enough to know that look. It means he’s thinking. But I’ve tortured him enough tonight so I quickly add to my admission.
“And by that, I mean no one’s ever been in love with me.”
Imagine a scoop of ice cream melting on the pavement. It perfectly encapsulates both the way his expression softens into understanding and then pity, and the way mine turns to dismay.
He comes toward me, his hand outstretched, but I dodge him. Clearly I didn’t quite think this through to its logical conclusion. I’d rather stab myself than be on the receiving end of his pity.