Page 55 of Fighting Spirit

“Yeah.” I slide my hands under my thighs, trying to calm the nervous tapping of my fingers. “All broody and grumpy, like a hot thundercloud.” I cringe as I say it, my attempt to crack a joke falling flat.

The corner of Rowan’s mouth turns up. “You think I’m hot.”

“Apparently I need my head examined,” I mutter. “I’ve done one too many bad backflips. It’s affecting my judgement.”

“You’re probably right.”

His teasing, which is so unlike him, mercifully cuts through some of the tension in the car and I’m able to relax my shoulders a fraction.

The rest of the drive passes in silence until Rowan’s pulling up in front of my apartment building. I don’t turn toward him and just stare down at my knees as the space in the car seems to shrink around us.

“Ruth.”

“Please don’t.” Whatever he has to say has the power to crack me in half. It’s not like I’m in love with him; I’m not pining or heartbroken. It’s that every time I put myself out there, take a step outside my comfort zone and dare to go out on a limb, the rejection hurts a hundred times worse. I can’t stand to hear what he must think of me right now, how pathetic he must find me. I probably made him really uncomfortable and now he just wants me to get out of his truck so he can forget I was ever in his life.

“Stop it over there.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I hiss back, immediately going on the defensive.

“You’re spiraling,” he replies bluntly. “It’s annoying.”

“Of course I’m fucking spiraling!” I know my anger is misdirected, that it’s not Rowan I want to lash out at, but that doesn’t stop me.

“Just let me talk, okay?”

I give him a sharp nod, still not looking at him.

“I know you don’t want me to say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’-”

“I don’t,” I cut him off.

“Can you just shut up for one second,” he groans, drawing out every exasperated word.

“Fine.” I pout.

“Look, it’s really nothing personal.”

I have to brace myself for what’s to come because he’s wrong. Whatever he says, this absolutely is personal. It’s the most personal kind of hurt, the kind of rejection that makes me want to curl up under my bed and never come out.

“I’ve never gone for anything casual. You know I’m not a spontaneous guy, and I just… I just don’t really feel that way…ever. About anyone. Not unless I know them really well.” His eyebrows are furrowed low, shading his already dark eyes. “I promise it’s not about you. And maybe in the future, I-”

I whip my head toward him, stopping whatever he’s about to come out with. I don’t need him talking about the future that’s never going to happen, trying to let me down gently out of pity or some misguided sense of responsibility. “Don’t even worry about it.” I take in a quick breath through my nose, trying to steel my nerves. “We can just chalk it up to a moment of madness, yeah? I got a little carried away, and I would honestly prefer it if we never talked about it again.”

“Ruth, come on.”

“Thank you for driving me home.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door in one quick movement, desperate to be as far away from this situation as possible. “I’ll call you, okay?”

I won’t. I know I won’t.

I know myself, and I know that this embarrassment, this feeling of hot, prickly rejection, isn’t something that’s going to go away in a hurry. Until it does, the thought of showing my face anywhere near Rowan Ainsley feels absolutely unbearable.

I try to rationalize the feeling, telling myself that it’s just my rejection-sensitive dysphoria. But even as it helps me make sense of what I’m feeling, I still have to feel it. And it hurts.

I fumble with the keys to the building, eventually opting to hit the buzzer. I jam my finger against the button over and over until Georgie buzzes me up, her voice thick with sleep over the intercom.

As I round the steps, I see her standing by the open front door, a look of worry plastered over her rumpled face. She doesn’t say anything, just opening her arms as I all but stumble toward her.

It’s not until I feel the damp fabric of her t-shirt under my cheek that I realize I’m crying.

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