Page 113 of Wilde's End
I don’t want sympathy. I want to shove any lingering emotions down so deep they’re hidden from scrutiny. “It was a fling.”
“Sure. You’re still lying, by the way.”
“Lying.” I scoff and tug my arm away.
“Why did it end?”
That’s the part that’s still cycling through my brain because I can’t figure out how it got to that point. When I climbed into his bedroom, my whole purpose was to figure out if he wanted more out of this thing to give weight to Kennedy’s concern, and then … it exploded.
It wasn’t until Hudson asked me whatIwant that my thoughts ground to a halt.
Because it never occurred to me that would matter.
I wasn’t lying when I told him that I’d stopped wanting anything, because somewhere along the line, I’ve woven myself so deeply into the town that it’s all I know. What do I want? Whatever is best for Wilde’s End. I want safety. Protection. For this place to thrive. I want all my Wenders to live in peace. Those are the only wants I’ve had for twenty years because if the town is okay, then I’m okay.
It never occurred to me that I could want Hudson too.
Not like this.
Wanting him for an orgasm is more of a primal urge.
Wanting him forme, that’s deeper. Intentional. And it’s the wanting on purpose that scares me.
“I think I have feelings for him.” The words are a slow drip of confession.
“That’swhy it ended? He didn’t want that?”
I shake my head because I’m still not sure of the exact reason for it. “No. I didn’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
“Because what if he doesn’t feel the same?”
Rooney’s mismatched colored eyes turn sympathetic. “Then he doesn’t feel the same. But at least then you know. It’s the not knowing that tears you up inside.”
Apparently, because I’m feeling fucking torn right now.
“So I’m supposed to walk up to him and … say what?”
“Exactly what you told me. That you think you have feelings for him.”
Even the concept of that makes me lightheaded. “I can’t do that.”
“It’s a very normal part of dating.”
Is it? I rub at one of my scars, trying to remember that time in my life. Everything from before Wilde’s End is shoved down tight, and pulling out each slip of memory takes effort. Like picking the scab off a wound. A flash of a face. The press of lips during a first sloppy kiss. Nerves and heartbreak and nerves again.
The intensity of it all makes me feel sick.
“I used to think you weren’t scared of anything,” Rooney says.
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you scared of Hudson?”
That quirk in his lips, his never-ending words, those eyelashes, and the confidence he wears like armor. The way it all slowly breaks down under my palms and I’m treated to the truest him I’ve seen yet. “Because he could hurt me.”
“Kurt—”
