Page 132 of Jaded

Nat’s words shock me into silence for maybe a full minute. They roil around in my head, rattle in my ribcage. They’re real and heavy and light all at once. Truth, my truth, but not spoken by me. Which means, somehow, he understood.

He saw me, and I don’t know that anybody’s ever seen me like that before.

“It’s so hard to fight for a dream,” I murmur, keeping my voice low in an attempt to steady it. “When you’re fighting yourself too.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth.” The pressure against my pinkie increases as his hand moves closer. “Fighting yourself and everybody who’s telling you you can’t do it. Or to just get over it.”

“Exactly. Sometimes, you even convince yourself they’re all right. Like, look how good life is—look at all the good things you have!”

Nat’s finger slides over mine, curling around it. Touching, fully, our two fingers enmeshed together. “Get your head on straight and be grateful.”

“Look how many beautiful things occupy all the dusty corners you’ve forgotten to look in!” My dry chuckle bears no amusement. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes you can distract yourself for a little bit. Run from the darkness.”

“But you always come back to square one,” he murmurs, and I can only nod.

“And sometimes,” I whisper to the ceiling. “Sometimes there’s nothing to feel at all. Sometimes you’re just hollow and hopeless and no amount of gratitude mantras or wilderness hikes can fill you back up.”

“Is that what happened?” Nat’s head tilts towards me. “Yesterday?”

“Yep. And when I’m there . . . feels like I’m never gonna get out, you know? Like it’s forever, and when it’s forever, what’s the point? And even . . . even when I get out, I know it’s coming back. I’ll be there again, and I hate that. I think about it all the time. It clouds the good moments, knowing the bad ones are coming back . . .”

His pinkie curls around mine, like a hug. “Did it make a difference, having me there?”

“Yeah.” I huff out the faintest laugh. “Yeah, it did, actually. Dunno if it always will, but yesterday . . .”

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze, eye to eye, so he knows I’m serious when I deliver the next words. “It was everything.”

Those green eyes widen, the only sign of any emotion my words might have evoked. “Will you . . . call me next time?”

“No,” I tell him, honestly, because I won’t. When I get there, to that place, to that dark hole of hopeless hollowness . . . It’s almost like you don’t want to get out. Don’t want to be found, rescued, because there’s something so relieving about being there, at the bottom. “No, I won’t.”

“I’ll come anyway.”

My chest tightens almost to the point of pain, so forcing a breath into my lungs feels like fighting. “You don’t—”

“I want to.” His hand sweeps around mine, twining our fingers together. He’s holding my goddamn hand, and he squeezes. “If you don’t call me, I’ll come anyway.”

I laugh again, a pained choke of sound that might be half a sob, but I’m not sure anymore because I don’t understand any of the emotion welling up inside my chest. “Why? Why would you do that?”

I regret the question as soon as it leaves my lips, but he doesn’t turn away or drop my hand.

“Because I want to. Because . . .” His eyes drop down to our entwined hands, and he squeezes again as he lifts our hands up between us. “Because this feels right.”

“What does? Me?”

“You. Us.”

I study the way his gaze trails over our hands, our fingers. The way his brows pull down, but his mouth relaxes. He really doesn’t understand it, but he’s not fighting it either.

“And you’re not . . . bothered by being into a guy?”

He chuckles, lowers our hands. “I mean, I never really thought about it much, I guess. I’ve kissed a few guys—sorry, Aspen, you’re not my first. But in general, my relationships just fizzle out before they start.”

“And then I came around and threw everything into chaos.” I grin, wide and free. “I’m flattered.”

“You’re something, that’s for sure.”

“Do you hate me for it?”

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