Page 8 of The Worst Kind of Promise
“Uh-huh. I’m aware.” I stab my finger through a fraying hole in his shirt.
Confusion blooms across Kit’s expression. “Is something wrong?”
Lungs flaming, breath sparse, stomach doing an unnatural flipping motion, I don’t sugarcoat my next sentence. And in hindsight, maybe it could’ve done with a little bit of sugar.
“You’re just treating me so”—I pause, making a wild gesture with my hands—“weirdly.”
His eyes track my awkward flapping, and he gives me a piercing stare that could melt me into a puddle of goo.
Note to self: don’t look into Kit’s eyes unless you want to spontaneously combust on the spot.
“I’m not treating you”—he clears his throat, imitating me in a high-pitched voice— “‘weirdly.’”
Indignation oozes through me, hot and sticky like tar. “You are,” I counter. “You’re not this type of person. You’re treating me like I’m fine china, about to break at any moment. I know you may look at me differently because—”
“I don’t look at you any differently, Faye.”
I spring to my feet with a groan, beginning to create a trench in the carpeted floor as I pace back and forth. I need to move, or I’ll end up ripping the hole in Kit’s shirt two rings wider. “You do. You might not be able to see it, butIdo. I’m not some problem you need to fix.”
Kit keeps his tone measured. “Who said you’re a problem?”
I ignore his question. “I called you because I trust you. I knew you wouldn’t make a big deal about this like my brother would. I didn’t ask for princess treatment.”
Rationally, I shouldn’t be angry with him. He’s worried. He’s just trying to help. But I am angry. I’m angry that I got myself in this situation in the first place. I’m angry that now I’m debating with Kit about temporarily moving in with him. I’m angry that I couldn’t handle this myself—that I had to rely on someone else to pick up my shattered pieces and try to hot-glue them back together.
One person. One moment. That’s all it takes. One second, and suddenly, it undoes all the progress I’ve made since the night I was eighteen. I’ve been doing good by myself. I’ve been keeping up with school and work, living on my own, only calling my brother monthly. The night of the assault was shoved to the farthest recesses of my mind, but now it’s floated back up to the edges.
“You’re mad at me because I care?” Kit exclaims.
When he puts it like that…
“Yes? No? Ugh! I just want things to go back to normal. I don’t want our friendship to be so serious. I don’t want you to know about my fucked-up past. I don’t—”
In all my blabbering, my awareness must’ve taken an impromptu vacation, because I don’t notice Kit stand up, nor do I register that he’s holding my face before it’s too late.
His touch silences my aimless tirade. Kit’s large palms cup my cheeks, his thumb flirting along the silk of my lip, inches away from invading my mouth if he so wished. He stares down at me with those nightshade eyes of his, hunching his broad-framed shoulders.
“Things can’t go back to normal, Faye. And that’s okay. I’m thankful you trusted me with what happened to you,” he says, and as mad as I want to be at him, I’m not.
I feel the anger deflate from my body, escaping my half-open mouth in a whoosh of exhaled air, evaporating into the atmosphere.
“I’m sorry if I’m coming on too strong. You’re not a problem. I just…I care about you. A lot more than I care about most people. I want to be here for you. I want to offer you support when you need it, even if you’re adamant about pushing me away.”
Tears bead on my lashes, waiting for me to blink so they can leave track marks over my skin. Pain takes shape in my throat, a golf ball that hinders any and all words.
I’ve never had someone go out of their way this much to help me. And having that person be Kit makes all my hormones go haywire.
Kit thumbs a stretch of skin below my eye, which means I must be crying right now. If I am, I’m too numb to feel it.
“Just because you’re used to taking care of yourself doesn’t mean you should be. Accepting help isn’t a sign of weakness; it doesn’t diminish your strength or resilience. You’re stronger if you acknowledge you need help,” Kit coos softly, making my heart flare brightly in my chest, so much so that someone could probably use it as a homing beacon from miles away. “You’re so content with carrying all this weight on your shoulders. Now let me carry some of it for you.”
And for the second time that night, I lose to my emotions, letting the body-racking sobs rupture the silence of the hotel room. Kit steadies me in his arms, envelops me in his warmth and safety, and presses his lips against the crown of my head. He’s whispering something, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. When I eventually get past the hiccups, I pull back, not bothering to wipe the snot off my puffy face.
“It’s late. You’ve had a long night. Let’s get some sleep and see how you feel in the morning, okay?” he proposes, leading me over to the side of the bed.
He pulls back the covers and helps me get settled, disappearing briefly into the bathroom only to return with a glass of cold water. I take the drink from him and gulp it down greedily, relishing the coolness flooding my esophagus, ridding me of my parchment-paper tongue.
Kit turns off the lights before I watch him climb into bed, but I can feel his Sasquatch body sidle up to mine, though his arms don’t wrap around me.
