Page 203 of Swallow Your Sorries

She does, and when she pulls away, I don’t miss the look that flits across her features before she ducks her head beneath my chin.

Confusion. Acceptance.

“You say we’re in a bubble. You say I have to let you go.”

“Because you do.”

“You’re scared of intimacy between us because you’re scared of your heart breaking when it’s time to say goodbye.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You want to fuck me, but you won’t. I gave you my reason. Give me yours.”

“I don’t have one other than I don’t want to.”

“I’ll only fuck you if you admit that you love me. You won’t fuck me, because you don’t want to fall in love.”

She says nothing.

“But we’re both already falling, Dovey. It’s going to happen. Next week, next month, next semester. It’s going to happen and if it’s going to happen, why can’t we just enjoy our bubble even if you swear it’ll burst?”

“Because it will.”

“But we’ll do it, anyway. So why can’t we enjoy the ride?”

“It’ll hurt too much when it ends,” she says softly.

Finally, she admits the truth.

“It’ll hurt regardless.”

“It’s not real.”

Of course, it is.

“We can just pretend.” I oblige her.

“Pretend?”

“I’m not letting you go while we’re here, Elle, and you don’t want me to. So if you insist that you already know the future, fine. Just pretend with me.”

She grows silent and we both watch the orangey sunset in silence through the giant window beside her bed. The one I’d climbed through.

“If you stay with me over the midterm break, we can watch a dozen sunsets together.”

She shifts to look up at me, her fingers splayed beneath her head and over my heart. “How do you expect me to do that?” she asks in disbelief. “Your father—”

“Hasn’t stepped foot in the penthouse for two years. I live alone.”

“Right,rich kid things.”

“Stay with me.”

“Beaulieu may be a bubble, but out there isn’t.” She juts her chin toward the window. “I can’t pretend out there. I have to work at the deli with Mum and save up as much as I can before school opens again. I need supplies, and Mum needs help.”

I blink slowly, trying to stave off the rage threatening to boil within me at the mere mention of Jaime. She’s already spent seventy per cent of the scratcher money and none of it on Elle.

“She doesn’t deserve you,” I can’t help but blurt.

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