Page 48 of For Fillies and Monsters

I’m spiraling, and I know it. I just have no idea how to stop myself. Especially with him leaning against the counter in faded jeans, a plain green T-shirt, his head and feet bare. Normally, I wouldn’t think a guy’s bare feet could be attractive, but it’s the fact that he looks so relaxed, so at home, that is sending my hormones into overdrive. His elbows propped against the counter, forearms and biceps straining with the effort of holding his body still.

Again with the fucking relaxed facade.

Except I wonder if he isn’t pretending right now. He looks too relaxed to be faking it. Scowling and bantering with Dalelike old friends, barefooted and offering to help me cook. Like he fits here, and he knows it. Or at least wants to.

Fucking get it together, Stetson. He does not want this simple life. He does not want you, not really.

“I like to cook. I’m, urm… horrible with expressing any kind of emotion. Years of trauma will do that to you.” The room goes quiet around me, as if both Gus and Dale are afraid to breathe and stop me from sharing my confession. I hate that I make everyone so anxious—like they think I’m breakable. I’m not. I’m the farthest thing from breakable. I bite my lip nervously and continue chopping. “But cooking, that’s something I can do. So, let me do it.”

I hear Gus huff and then stand up, shuffling away. I don’t want their pity; I hate pity. I just want them to understand.

“Horrible at expressing your emotions, huh?” I want to punch Dale for sticking her finger in my vulnerability. I know it’s teasing, but honestly?Read the room.I’m not breakable, but I am insecure.

“Even worse at asking for help,” Gus adds, and I nearly drop my knife.

“Oooh, terrible at taking advice.” I blink rapidly at Dale.

“Is this a Stetson roast?” I slam the blade of the knife harder onto the cutting board than necessary, but my skin is starting to itch.

“The worst at taking a joke.” Gus looks bored as he says the words, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes me instantly deflate.

They got me on all points—fuck them.

“Good thing we love you, Stetson!” Dale takes another swig of her beer, her eyes zeroing in on the side of Gus’s face. “Don’t we, Gus?”

I stare into his unblinking eyes, and I have the faintest feeling of being peeled open—like he is seeing clear to my darksoul. I want to fold my arms across my chest and hide, but I’m frozen.

“That we do.” Three little words and my world erupts into fireworks, my stomach somersaulting so violently I fear I might throw up. I remain frozen, staring into his eyes, hoping that I may see beneath his masks, the way he so effortlessly sees beneath mine.

Instead of letting me in, he blinks and shifts away, severing the live wire of tension between us. With his back turned, I pin Dale with a glare that I hope looks angrier than I feel, but she just smiles. She knows my stomach is a mess of butterflies right now.

Gus doesn’t actually love me; that would be madness. But it’s fun to pretend.

The kitchen is full of the noises of sizzling chicken breasts, boiling noodles, and steaming broccoli, the wails of some old country song, mixed with Dale singing along, and Gus asking her “Who sings this song?”

It’s chaos and madness, but also feels like one of the most peaceful moments I’ve ever had. It feels like how life is supposed to be, something I have rarely even glimpsed in my first twenty-eight years.

“I give up,” Gus huffs, leaning against the counter surprisingly close to me.

When had he gotten so close?He is annoyingly sneaky.

“You’d never win, anyway. No one has more stamina or experience at beingannoying, theway she does.” I say it loud enough for Dale to hear, and to no one’s surprise, she wails louder, ignoring me, continuing to dance around the room in a cloud of black hair.

“What were your parents like?” I stop, caught off guard by his question. I look at him, his face devoid of emotion beyond curiosity.

“Well, shit, I don’t know. They sucked honestly. My mom was sweet but a doormat. And she let a lot of bad things happen to me. The porch swing—” The words sit like rocks in my throat, and his eyes remain unwavering on my face, not shying away. I swallow and forge on, feeling empowered by his attention. “It was one of the only places my mother and I shared happy memories. I can still see her sitting there sometimes.” I lick my lips and watch his face, expecting something—anything—but he continues to wait patiently. “And Gibson was the most evil kind of man. Violence like his was Hell on Earth. I’d wish him dead if he was still around to wish such a thing for, even if that makes me fucked up.”

He continues to stare at me, but gone is the gentle curiosity, replaced with forced nonchalance, his eyes glittering with anger. It’s not anger with me, that much I know. Even if I don’t understand it, hearing about Gibson sets him off.He cares.But about me, or about my sad story, I don’t know.

“Sorry. That’s pretty heavy for dinner. And for someone who doesn’t know me. I just don’t like lying.”

“You lie to me and yourself all the time.”

Not what I expected him to say.What the hell does he mean?I open my mouth to ask when he cuts in.

“My parents were the best. They were hard workers, provided us with the things we really wanted, and taught us the value of working hard for it. They laughed and played together like a couple of kids, and loved so fiercely that it was sometimes sickening to be around them. They were obsessed with eachother.” Gus pauses, his eyes far off, but I don’t move—I don’t even breathe.

Is he letting me in?

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