Page 52 of Because I Liked A Boy
The Push and Pull
By the time I get home, I’m wrung out. The day at the shop was a blur of shelving and pretending I wasn’t unravelling, but the moment the door clicks shut behind me, the silence presses in.
I kick off my shoes, swap my cardigan for an oversized t-shirt, and curl up on the sofa with the book I grabbed on the way out. Bride by Ali Hazelwood. Comfort read. Familiar, funny, romantic in that swoony way I always swore I was above.
I trace the corner of the page with my thumb, but the words blur. Every line swims with the memory of Hunter’s hands on me, the way his voice broke when he said my name.
My skin still tingles where he touched me. My thighs ache from the way I clung to him, my lips swollen like proof. My body doesn’t know the difference between want and danger. To my heart, both feel the same.
I slam the book shut. “Get a grip,” I mutter.
And then my phone buzzes.
I reach for it without thinking—half-expecting Ruby, maybe even some reckless part of me hoping for Hunter.
My stomach plummets.
I know that number. I haven’t seen it in weeks, but I could never forget it.
Every instinct screams at me to let it ring, to throw the phone across the room, to never hear his voice again.
But some things you can’t ignore. My thumb swipes before I can stop it.
“Hello?” My voice is barely there.
“Isabella.”
I freeze. My father’s voice pours down the line like ice water, smooth and controlled, every syllable sharpened to cut.
“Dad.” The word scrapes my throat raw.
“I hear you’ve been keeping busy.” His tone is casual, conversational, but it makes my skin crawl. “The mum’s suits you. Mr. Whittaker’s a kind man, isn’t he?”
My blood runs cold. “How do you—”
“You always leave at the same time,” he continues. “You check the door twice. Three, if you’re distracted. Your cardigan slips off your shoulder when you shelve the higher stacks. And when you think no one’s watching, you sit behind the counter and read instead of working.” His voice drips through the line like oil. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
The room tilts.
“And the coffee shop,” he adds. “The Maple Bean. Vanillalatte. Extra shot. Ruby talks too much when she pours it. Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you lean on her? Or how you laugh differently when that boy’s in the room?” His tone turns cruel. “You forget I taught you how to keep your tells hidden. Now I see them everywhere.”
“You’re watching me,” I breathe.
“I make it my business to know where my daughter is. Especially when she’s surrounding herself with people who don’t understand who you really are.”
That’s what makes his warning land like a punch. When my father says he’s watching, it isn’t paranoia. It’s a promise.
“They’re just friends,” I snap, too fast.
A low hum. “Friends who think they can protect you? Or is it just one in particular?”
My breath hitches.
“You’ve always been reckless with boys,” he says softly. “Even Nathan couldn’t stop you.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what? Remind you of the mess you left behind?” His words are knives, slicing slow and deliberate. “You can run, Isabella. But you can’t hide. Not in Maplewood. Not anywhere.”
