Page 62 of The First Kind of Love
I watch as Shiloh storms out of the bathroom to ditch the sheets, and I stumble upon her angrily rifling through her clothes, messing up the very organized system that she’s been so diligent about keeping.
I’m not above begging her to let me help. I’m not above falling to my goddamn knees andbeggingher not to shut me out. I won’t survive if she pushes me away. I’m trying my best to weed out the more incriminating responses, but I’m afraid that whatever I say, she’ll find some way to twist my words.
The current’s becoming too tumultuous. She won’t survive if she doesn’t hang on to me. I can’t let her drown. I won’t.
“You don’t have to carry this all by yourself. I care about you, Shiloh. If I can do something to help you and your family, Iwantto. Nobody’s going to think any less of you for asking for help.”
“But I don’tneedyour help! I don’t want some magical fix to this, because that’s not how life works, okay? Not all of us make seven figures a year.”
She’s just lashing out. She doesn’t mean any of this…right?
When I speak, my voice cracks under an invisible pressure, and a miasma burns in my sinuses. “Shiloh, please. Money doesn’t mean anything to me. I need to know you’re taken care of. I need to know that yourfamilyis taken care of. Let me help, just this once.”
“No, Fulton. I’ll never be like those girls who take advantage of you for your generosity.”
“You’re not like them. Not even close. Stop being prideful. Why won’t you just accept that there’s someone in this world who wants to genuinely help you?”
“What is it, huh? Do you think I’m not capable of earning my own money? Do you get off on pretending to play knight in shining armor with your bottomless bank vault? Do you pity me? The sad, pathetic girl who still works at a coffee shop whenshe’s in her mid-twenties?” she snaps, wadding up one of her nighttime T-shirts and throwing it at me.
The ball unfurls against my chest, but it’s her words that leave a lasting mark on my body—a gnarly, infected wound that’s all putrefied tissue and blackened skin. Moisture laves at my burning eyes as phosphenes begin to whirl in my vision like snowflakes in a snow globe.
“That’s not what I think at all, and you’re putting words in my mouth. Why are you punishing me for wanting to help you? Would you rather me just sit here and do nothing?”
I can’t believe this. Why isshemakingmeout to be the bad guy? I didn’t force her to come on this trip with me.
Shiloh shimmies into a pair of sweatpants and aggressively yanks her head through the hole of an oversized hoodie. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about her outfit preference at a time like this, but if she goes outside, she’s going to overheat.
“We’re not together. It’s not your job to do something!”
That’s right—we’re not…together. I’m the idiot who’s been playing make believe this entire time. We barely know each other. IthoughtI knew her. Did I seriously think four years of small talk would lead to a flawless happily ever after? Maybe this is the reality check I needed.
Fuck. FUCK!
She has my heart in a firm grip, and she’s just crushed it like it was nothing more than rotting fruit, the juices of my labor dripping through her sharp, gnarled fingers.
“That’s not fair. You’re pushing me aside like I don’t even matter.”
I don’t have any fight left in me. It’s obvious now that she’s not going to listen to anything I say. I want to implore her to stay. I want to figure out a solution where she doesn’t feel indebted to me. I want to work something out, but she just wants to run away.
Though I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Maybe runningis always going to be Shiloh’s way out—out of her obligations, out of our relationship.
“My ex asked me for more than I could give. This is all I can give right now.”
“I’ll take it, Sunshine. Whatever you’re willing to offer.”
Shiloh sucks in a shaky breath, blinks away the residual tears encrusted on her lashes, and stumbles over to the door. “I…I need some time alone,” she says quietly, but even at the near-inaudible volume, her words howl in my eardrums with enough force to blow them out completely.
My lips part around a counterargument, but she beats me to the chase, one hand wrapped around the doorframe in a show of finality. “Please, Fulton…please don’t follow me.”
“You’re walking out. Just like everyone does,” I whisper.
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’tneedto—her silence is loud enough.
And when she leaves, slamming the door behind her, I get this sinking suspicion that I’ll always be the second choice, no matter how much I beg to be the first.
19
PREVIOUSLY, ON THE BACHELORETTE…
