Page 139 of Fault Lines
Nate didn’t move from the window. I could feel the tension rolling off him, dense and sparking at the edges.
I tried to go casual. “You hungry?”
He shook his head, still not facing me. “Not really. Got a weird stomach today.”
I cracked the seltzer and took a long pull, counting the fizz as it prickled my tongue. I watched the way Nate’s back seemed to shrink in on itself, like he was bracing for a blow.
“I talked to Rachel,” I said, to fill the silence. “She and Jackson are fighting again. Something about the dishwasher.”
Nate let out a short, humorless laugh. “Figures. Those two are allergic to peace and quiet.”
I watched him, trying to pick up where the thread had gotten tangled. “Are we okay?” I said, before I could talk myself out of it.
He turned then, slowly. His eyes looked even paler in the strange, slatted light. “You tell me.”
The seltzer can was cold enough to hurt my hand. I set it on the counter, afraid it might slip and shatter the moment.
“I keep thinking this will get easier,” I said. “Us. But it’s like the closer we get, the harder it is for me to—” I couldn’t finish. I didn’t have the words, not the real ones.
“To what?” he said, too quick.
I tried to smile, but it felt like showing teeth. “To trust that it’s not all going to collapse again.”
He pressed his lips together, jaw tight. “That’s what I am to you? Another disaster waiting to happen?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He stepped away from the window, the phone dropping to his side. “Then what do you mean, Livi? Because sometimes it feels like you’re here because you’re afraid of being alone, not because you actually want me.”
I could feel my pulse in my ears. “That’s not fair.”
He barked out a laugh, sharp and hollow. “Isn’t it? You left Cam, but you can’t leave Cam. Not really. You talk about him all the time. Even when you say you’re over it, it’s always right there, under the surface. I’m not your rebound, but you treat me like a—” He stopped, shaking his head.
I wanted to run, or scream, or curl up under the couch and never come out. “What am I supposed to do, Nate? Pretend I don’t have a past? Pretend I’m not still trying to figure out how to breathe on my own?”
He closed the space between us in two steps, but stopped short, as if the air between us was a minefield.
“I don’t want to be your project,” he said, softer now. “I don’t want to be the thing you pick up just to keep from thinking about everything you lost.”
“I don’t want that either,” I whispered.
He let his head drop, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes. “I just want to know if you’re ever going to let me all the way in, or if I’m going to be waiting out here forever.”
The question hung between us, huge and impossible.
I reached for him—reflex, habit—but he stepped back, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you.”
“It’s okay,” I said, though it clearly wasn’t.
We stood there, staring at each other, both waiting for the other to say something that would undo the last ten minutes. The sun had shifted, painting the whole apartment in a sicklyorange. The air conditioner kicked on with a rattle, as if the room itself was shuddering at the awkwardness.
Nate picked up his phone again, like it was armor. “I need to go for a walk,” he said. “Clear my head.”
I nodded. “I’ll stay.”
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the lock button, then slid the phone into his pocket. “I hope you do.”
