Page 162 of Toxic Temptation
“That you’re in love with him and it’s terrifying you.”
“I’m not?—”
“And that you’re doing that thing you always do when you’re scared of losing someone.”
“What thing?”
“You disappear first.”
I cringe instinctively. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” He glances at me, and his expression is gentle now. Sad. “You did the same thing with Dad after his diagnosis.”
“That was completely different,” I insist.
“How?”
“Because Dad chose to die, Waylen,” I say. “He didn’t just refusealiver; he refusedmyliver. He looked me in the eye and chose death over letting me help him.”
“He chose protecting you over?—”
“No.” I shake my head hard. “He gave up. On all of us. We weren’t worth fighting for.”
Waylen’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is careful. “Kovan asked about you.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. In that weird, roundabout way guys do when they’re trying to act like they don’t care but they obviously do.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’re good with death but terrible with loss.”
I stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you can handle watching strangers die. You can hold their hands and fight for them until their last breath, but when that breath comes, it’s okay. But the possibility of losing someone you love? That sends you running for the hills every time.”
“That’s not true.”
“Vesper.” He’s the picture of patience, of reasonable calm, like he’s talking to one of his students. “You avoided Dad for months after he refused the transplant. You stopped visiting. Stopped calling. You basically grieved him while he was still alive.”
My eyes sting. “I couldn’t watch him choose to leave us.”
“And now, you can’t watch Kovan choose to stay.”
I turn to stare out the passenger window. The houses blur past, each one looking like the home I grew up in. Colonial. White picket fence. The American dream wrapped in vinyl siding, hiding so much sadness within.
“When did you become so wise?” I mutter cruelly.
“Therapy helps.”
“Since when do you go to therapy?”
“Since Dad died.” He pulls into Mom’s driveway and puts the car in park. “Six months. Twice a week. I never miss.”
My jaw hangs wide open. “You never told me.”
“You weren’t exactly taking calls, V.”
