Page 68 of There's Pumpkin About You
“Can you tell that to your tone because it seems to be a little confused.”
“I’m not—” I stop myself when I hear my raised voice. I swallow a sigh and bury myself deeper into my blanket.
I’ve been avoiding everybody ever since the incident this morning, the embarrassment causing too much restriction in my chest for me to handle people’s pitiful or judgmental stares. Since Gus is the first person I’ve seen since, I suppose my mind is using him as a substitute for the person I really want to yell at. Myself.
I take a deep breath and soften my voice. “I’m sorry, Gus. I really am not mad at you. I suppose I just needed to get rid of all my pent-up energy.”
There’s a pause, during which time he looks at me with a kind of understanding that I’ve never seen on his face before.
“Is that what you need from me?”
“What?” I ask.
He takes a seat beside me, a warm hand landing on my thigh. “Is that what you need from me? To be an outlet for you to get out your frustration?”
“God, no.” I turn towards him. “August, no one should ever need that from you. It was wrong of me to do that and I hope no one else ever does.”
He shrugs even though he looks almost determined to do it, to be my own personal punching bag until I feel all of my negative energy has depleted.
“Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
Never would I have thought that this is where August Finch and I would end up after just a few short weeks. I never thought that I would be here feeling relief that Gus decided to come and check on me, that he is here offering to help me in the way that I need the help. It’s hard to believe that we’ve gone from arguing non-stop to me harboring genuine feelings for the man. Feelings that I can’t act on for reasons that his presence today has cemented.
It’s not safe. Dating isn’t safe, being vulnerable isn’t safe… loving isn’t safe. It’s at a point where even six months later, I’m paying the price for loving a man who only ever cared about himself.
I’m tired.
Defeated, I look up at Gus, a thick wave of brown hair falling into his eyes, nose scrunched up in such an adorable way that it hurts my heart to know that I must make him off-limits.
Maybe he can be off-limits starting from tomorrow.
“Can you stay?” I ask so softly that it’s almost a whisper, but it’s enough to break the suffocating silence that threatened to end me if I didn’t shatter it completely.
His hand moves from his thigh to grab my hand and he laces his fingers with mine. The warmth from his hand instantly brings me a sliver of calm that’s been missing from my life for a long time. Even as his thumb begins to trace small circles against the back of my hand, I find my anger and embarrassment from today begin to drain.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says when his gaze meets mine.
My body instantly relaxes knowing that I’ll have him by my side for another night since it’s been craving the feel of being wrapped in his arms since the last time. The nights that I’ve had to sleep alone have been strangely empty—full of tossing, turning and incomplete conversations that were left drifting around the stale air of my bedroom.
I stand from the couch, allowing the blanket to fall from my shoulders. The way he watches me when it hits the ground would make you think I’ve just stripped myself of every layer of clothing, which isn’t much in the first place considering I’m only in pajama shorts and a crop top. I never let my house get cold.
The dark, hard gaze of a man on the edge of losing control is what welcomes me as I hold out my hand to him. His hand slides against mine and I slowly lead him towards my bedroom, the air around us shifting with every step.
His hat is gone, which is a good thing, because if it stayed on for much longer, I would have to ask him to do some very unsavory things to me with the hat on.
The soft greens of my bedroom are comforting, but not whilst the rest of the room is the chaotic mess that greets us as we enter—clothes tossed all over the floor from this morning, my make-up taking up half of the bed, and my multitude of empty glasses that never seemed to tag along for the journey from my bedroom to the kitchen.
“Let me clean this up,” I offer as I hurriedly begin packing my make-up back into its bag.
“Wren.”
I hastily pick up the clothes from the floor, not even bothering to check if they’re clean or not before dumping them into the laundry hamper.
“Wren.”
I need to clean up the bedside table on his side, too. What if he wants to put his phone down or something?
“Sweetheart, stop.”
