Page 156 of Bring You Back

Get out of my head,man.Anger flares in my chest, and I ball my fists, in defiance of my guilt, because it’s mostly Julian’s fault she’s questioning everything. Including me now.

But she came here. She wanted to see me. She still trusts me, even if the trust is shaken. I want toshakeeverybody else, ask what’s wrong with them, because there’snothingwrong with her.

I slide down beside her, let go of this increasing temper, and stretch my arms out over my bent knees, bumping her shoulder with mine. “That’ll never happen.”

“You’re all I have, Tommy,” she murmurs.

“Guess it could be worse,” I joke to make her smile again, while trying to remind her through my panic at the touch of grief in her voice that I’m not the worst.

Please don’t let me go.

Three…two…one—she smacks my thigh with a laugh, and I look down between my arms with a quiet one of my own, my worry cutting off all sound.

“There’s no one better,” she says, repeating my once declaration with a smile now in her voice, and my head leans back against the wall, my lips parting on shallow breaths.

If she could feel the effect she has on me, she wouldn’t need to doubt. I can be shit at hiding it. It’s not like I try. But the brain only lets us see what it wants us to see. It doesn’t process what can’t make sense or what we think isn’t possible. Because of my feelings, I’ve actively looked for signs Reyna could feel the same way. I’ve only seen what she feels for Julian. He’s all we could both see while I’ve been hidden behind her thoughts of him.

If I’ve ever even been in her thoughts that way.

I wonder—worry, hope—if she’ll see me now. If she’ll sense my feelings in what I say and what I do.

I collect myself and take her hand, hold the eyes that hold all my favorite shades of green. “Always.”

She squeezes, and I wait for herAlways. “You’re mad at me, though, right?” she says in lieu of saying it back as she slides her hand from mine. I’m shaking my head, looking down at my now open, empty palm, as she adds, “You’re Camille’s best friend.”

“Yeah, but you’re mine,” I manage as I try not to dwell over this being the only time she’s ever not said it back.

Reyna looks down, her mouth fighting for and against a smile. “Don’t tell her that.” She tries to sound playful, but her spirit is wounded.

Camille’s tear-drenched face blares in my mind the moment before she and Julian tried to give me some kind of ultimatum I rebelled against. “She knows.”

“Ishould’ve known,” Reyna scolds herself, then flinches, changes the words. “I should’ve trusted myself. She’s the one that got away. How could I compete with that?”

No one can compete with you. “You don’t have to compete with anyone.” Murmured, safe words.

“Why can’t anyone keep me?” she asks next, her eyes filling with tears, her inhale shaky. “Why am I so easy to let go of?”

“You’re not,” I say right away, shifting to face her. “God, Reyna. . .” That’s all I can breathe out through my increasing anger toward anyone who makes her question her worth. I’m not perfect. I’ve messed up with Reyna, she’s messed up with me, but we’ve never messed up this bad. And we’ve always fixed our screwups. We’ve always known what we have.

Her fingers wipe fallen tears, the tips pressing into her cheeks as she tries to believe my assurance, but she shakes her head, sliding her hands down from her face with a sigh.

She doesn’t believe she can be loved, but she can. Sheisloved. But words aren’t holding now. Yesterday is not today. Today comes with a grain of salt.

My eyes follow the line of prints she left behind, tilting my head forward to give her a direction to shift her glassy-eyed, searching stare. I’ll never want her eyes to not find a safe place in mine. “Reyna. . .”

She drags her legs back up, hugs her knees. “I hate them.”

I lean my head against the wall, my eyes still waiting for hers. “You don’t.”

She scoffs. “I want to.”

“Yeah,” I scoff out myself, my feelings the same. Another tear rolls down her cheek and I lean up, brush it away with the backs of my fingers.

She doesn’t react to my touch, and my panic rises.

“I’m not crying because I feel bad for what I did,” she tells me, my fingers still brushing against her cheek. “I’m crying because I don’t.” She turns her head before I have the chance to lower my hand, and her lips, soft and damp with tears, graze my fingers. I jerk my hand back like I’ve been scalded, and while I’m mentally calling myself every dope, idiot, and moron in the book, she seems to have not registered my reaction. And that’s good, because I’m saved from having to explain why my breathing has suddenly hiked.

She licks the tears from her lips, her teeth skimming over the spot my fingers just touched. “What’s happening to me?”

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