Page 37 of The First Kind of Love
Maybe I don’t know the inner workings of Shiloh’s occupation, but I know how hard it was for her to accept my invitation and temporarily leave the job she has dedicated her life to. Simply going on a date is a step out ofmycomfort zone, so I can’t even imagine flying to a whole other country and stayingwith a stranger for three weeks. I’m proud of her for that. In fact, I could learn a thing or two from her.
Even if she hates what I have to say, I’d rather have her hate me than live without knowing how she’s resuscitated my own love for life. “You punish yourself because deep down, you can never live up to your own expectations. You’re so used to running everything by yourself that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be put first.”
Her eyes—two quarries of unprocessed emotion—evade me, but I don’t let her rip her hand away. “It’s easier to rely on myself than others. Things need to get done a certain way or?—”
I cut her off, not caring that my voice has risen an octave or that my fingers have locked around hers with a detested kind of desperation. “But can’t you see how it’s hurting you? Can’t youfeelit?”
“I haven’t felt anything in a long time.”
And just like that, my whole world caves in. The only thing worse than feeling too much is feeling nothing at all. Numbness. Rigor mortis. A stillness that reminds us of how fragile our lives are.
Unlike Shiloh, I feel everything. So greatly.And I wish I didn’t.
I’d kill for a brain that isn’t always fighting for approval from strangers. In some sick and twisted way, Shiloh and I are mirror images of each other, aren’t we? Both trying to live up to internal expectations that can never be met—both willing to die for validation.
“Let me take your pain, Shiloh. Let me drown so you can finally breathe,” I beg, bringing our intertwined hands to my heart, where I’m hoping she can feel the way it flitters from her touch alone. Her poor hand feels so cold in comparison to my chest, like there’s no trace of life humming through her veins.
“Maybe I’m just destined to barely keep my head above water.”
No! Take me. Use my body as a raft to keep yourself afloat. Swim. Survive. Don’t do it for me. Do it foryou.
Unfallen tears singe the backs of my eyes. “I refuse to believe that.”
She pockets her dispute, instead settling for a simple, “Why?”
I know our “relationship” is a little more than friendly, but what I want to say has the capability of abolishing any remaining platonic parameters. So, when I should hold my tongue, I take the idiot’s way out and do the exact opposite. Letting my heart spearhead this whole thing is like threading a needle with shaky, unpracticed hands—bound to end in failure.
“Because you, Shiloh Nguyen, are destined for something greater. You’ll always be too good for this world. So, this so-called ‘life’ you’re living, it’ll never fulfill you. It’ll never fulfill you because youknowyou deserve better.”
Holy shit. What did you just do, Fulton? Please stop talking. You’re going to freak her out. The next best course of action is to change the subject before the damage is irreversible.
“I wish you could see what I see. I wish you could see how incredible you are,” I confess.
That issonot changing the subject!
Shiloh’s concerningly speechless. And not in a good way. Something changes in that split second of time, unknowingly rewriting our future.
To my dismay, she withdraws her hand, erecting a distance between us that might not be noticeable to the outside eye but can be felt nonetheless—a disappointment so profound that it drives the serrated edge of a hunter’s knife straight through my heart. The lack of warmth and comfort hits me instantly, and the cold air from the overhead vent bracelets around my Shiloh-less arm.
“And I can say the same for you,” she murmurs, upholdinga pastiche of happiness that’s nothing if not unconvincing, split by hairline fractures of an indigestible truth. “You’re so much more than your anxiety, Fulton. You’re so much more than your past.”
How can I think about my past when all I want is for you to be my future?
12
A BARISTA, A HOCKEY PLAYER, AND A TURTLE WALK INTO A BAR…
FULTON
“Ithink I’m starting to regret this!” Shiloh shouts over the whiz of the Jet Ski, her arms wrapped so tightly around my torso that they dig into my ribs.
Ever since our heart to heart, things have been…weird. Not strained, per se, but not the same as they were before. A part of me regrets letting all my emotions spill out. It wasn’t an easy conversation to have, and I don’t think I made it any easier by divulging my true feelings. Any compliments I’ve given Shiloh in the past have been watered down by humor and flippancy—at least, in her perspective. I’ve just dug myself a cozy-looking grave.
My eyes cut to the miniscule-looking shoreline in the distance, bisecting sand and water with a foamy divide. “Uh, we’re already out in the middle of the ocean.”
I don’t need to see Shiloh’s face to pinpoint her hesitancy—the tension in her body decries every little worry archived in the recesses of her brain. “What if I fall off?”
I know some part of her is joking, but the drumroll of my heart is a counterweight to my disposition’s seemingly lax nonchalance. “I’d never let that happen,” I insist, throwing areassuring look over my shoulder.
