Page 60 of Unexpected Heroine

A single question—who are you—hits him harder than any other I’ve asked. And that speaks volumes.

Let it go for now, Lettie.

Unfortunately, my impulsiveness wins again. “You can’t answer me, can you? Not truthfully. Not without triggering an avalanche of lies that’ll bury us alive.”

With a sharp inhale, he snaps his head upward, locking our gazes. Aside from making a muffled choking sound, he doesn’t speak.

So I do.

“I know you’re hiding things from me. Your name, for starters. And now this side of you who is capable of... hell, I don’t even know what.” I take a steadying breath. “But your body language tells me those things only scratch the surface. All your secrets are intertwined, aren’t they? And there’s probably more.”

Miraculously, I manage not to cry or yell.

Seconds pass, his face giving me nothing. There’s a subtle flare of his nostrils with each inhale. A slight twitch under one eye.

That’s all.

The tick of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. If I strain, I could likely hear our heartbeats too.

When he meets my eyes, I barely recognize him.

Wait. That’s not true.

I do recognize him. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen this version of him. The one who holds his emotions deep inside, never revealing them.

Or even feeling them.

And I get it. If there was ever a time to cut off what makes you human, it would be now, minutes after watching that horrible recording. I did it myself once or twice inside the nightmare house.

Except I don’t want that version of him. I want the real him with me. Whoever that may be. Secrets be damned.

If we’re happy, we’re happy together.

If we hurt, we hurt together.

What he’s hiding doesn’t matter right now. It’ll matter later.

When I move closer, I realize his mask is surface level. There’s a tumultuous ocean of darkness behind his eyes.

He’s trying so damn hard to conceal his pain. Just like when he watched that fucking video that sent him into this rage.

Suddenly, his entire facade collapses. One moment, he’s stoic, and the next, he’s crumpling in on himself. His face falls, shoulders slump, and chest caves in.

But the sound he makes nearly brings me to my knees.

It’s only a breath. How can it convey so much? Simply air leaving the lungs. That’s all it is.

Only this exhale is fraught with stifling emotions.

Whatever he’s lied about has hurt him. If that’s the case, what will it do to me?

I’m about to speak—to tell him not to answer—when he hesitantly creeps close and looks deep into my eyes. “Do you want to know who I am or what I’m going to do, Lettie? Or do you just want me to take care of it? Tell me what you think you can handle because I’m not good at this. At reading you. Not tonight. This interpersonal shit is above my fucking pay grade.”

I open my mouth to scream no, but nothing comes out. The only thing I can do is put my hands on his shoulders and squeeze, silently begging him to stop talking.

I can’t handle his truth right now.

He misunderstands my nonverbal cues, assuming I’m still fighting for an explanation he doesn’t want to give. “If you continue demanding answers, I’ll have no choice but to give them to you. And I don’t fucking know if you can handle it. Not now. Be careful what you ask. Lettie baby, there’s a high possibility that you won’t like the answers.”

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