Page 15 of Savagely Yours
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then deny it.”
“Easy—you’re not. You’re a normal fucking human. I just…” He groaned, again running his fingers through his hair. “I’m not comfortable with you needing me as much as you do.”
For a second, I tried to imagine what a bee sting directly to the heart might feel like and licked my lips to hide any sign of a quiver.
“Okay. I’ll go.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s head back.”
“Tapley, don’t misunderstand me.”
“How could I? You’ve been very clear.”
“Just trust me.”
“Will do.”
Hurt, embarrassed, and disappointed, I turned and walked off.
I packeda bag and kept my distance.
Dez’s words didn’t only hurt because I had feelings for him. We’d gotten close. We were good friends. I wanted to ride this thing out with someone capable, someone I knew and trusted, not trapped inside some survivors’ camp or worse, on some rich guy’s island.
But I was terrified he was right.
Me tagging along was like an inexperienced swimmer trying to save someone from drowning. At the end of the day, I would only end up pulling him beneath the ocean’s surface with me.
So, we danced around each other all evening. Whenever he asked whether I was all right, I lied, but faking strength was the last leg I had to stand on. At times, I caught him watching me, but I pretended not to notice. There was no guarantee someone would come, and we might end up having to stay together anyhow, but that notion didn’t break my heart any less.
Usually, we stayed up to read together.
It was married-old-couple behavior, and in the beginning, we barely made it past one chapter before falling asleep. Eventually, however, we found a rhythm. We made it through scene after scene, sitting or lying side by side as each story unfolded.
Tonight, instead of reading, I went straight to bed.
Less than an hour later, Dez’s candlelit shadow darkened my doorway, gripping a book in one hand. “You don’t want to read with me tonight?” he asked, soft undertones of disappointment noticeable in his voice. “Tapley, look…don’t be mad. You’re better off with a group of p?—”
“Okay. You’re right.” I rolled onto my side, facing away from him. But then, imbued with the spirit of a fist rising in protest, I flopped back over. “No, I take that back. You’re wrong.”
“Tapley—”
“Let me make myself very clear, Dez. If someone shows up here tonight, they can go right on and fuck themselves. They could promise me the land of milk and honey, promise me aparadise. It-does-not-matter. I’m not leaving you. I don’t trust anyone else within damn near a thousand miles outside of you.”
He stalked across the room, grabbed a chunk of my tank top, and yanked me up until our faces were inches apart.
“That’s my point,” he hissed. “If you don’t leave me now, I’ll never give you another chance. I’ll never let you go. The world is ending, and you’re all I have. That kind of selfishness? It could get you killed or worse, and I can’t do it, Tapley. I can’t see you turned into one of those things. I can’t see you not getting excited about your nineties R&B, or have you look at me and…” His expression softened. “And there’s no life behind your eyes. If that happens, it’s my fault. It’s on me, and I can’t explain just how much that shit would hurt medown to my fucking soul.”
It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say.
After earlier today, I’d anticipated some version of “Leave, bitch,” the moment some shadow government entity got me in their claws. My heart was at full gallop, and he had to know there was no way I’d so much as consider going somewhere he wouldn’t be after an admission like that.
“It’s not just nineties R&B,” I barely croaked out. “I like soft rock, too. Sinéad O’Conner, ‘Nothing Compares 2 U.’ Paula Cole, ‘I Don’t Want To Wait.’”
“What’s the second one?”
“TheDawson’s Creeksong?”
“What’sDawson’s Creek?”
