Page 66 of The Weight Of Falling
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” She flashes me a rueful smile. “I think that’s part of why you’re so attractive. You don’t even realize how stunning you are.”
I find myself smiling back. “Thank you. But for the record, you’re gorgeous too.” And it’s true. She is.
Farah tilts her head. “Don’t even get me started on Joel. I mean, does he even know how ridiculously attractive he is?”
A startled laugh escapes me, the tension breaking. “I have no idea.”
For the first time, we share something real, even if it’s a little awkward. An admission that being drawn to Joel is almost inevitable.
“Come by the salon sometime,” she urges. “I’d love to get my hands on your hair.”
I must flinch, because she says, “You’re worried I’ll chop it off or dye it orange, aren’t you?”
I shrug sheepishly. “Something like that.”
She lets out a boisterous laugh. “Honestly? The same thought would cross my mind.”
Her laugh disarms me, loosening something tight inside. “I’m not ready to let you inside just yet,” I admit, “but maybe...maybe we could grab coffee sometime?”
Gratitude fills her eyes. “I would love that. Thank you.”
26
Joel arrives a little after eight. The sight of his tightly shuttered face has nerves stirring in my stomach. He refuses my offer of food or drink, a clear sign he doesn’t plan to stay long.
We sit stiffly across from each other in the living room. I’m in a white hoodie, sweatpants, and slippers, my hair pulled into a low ponytail. I didn’t bother dressing up. What would be the point, when I suspect he came to end things between us?
“Farah spray-painted your car because of me,” he says straight away, skipping past any small talk.
My fingers tighten their grip on my knees. I knew he’d blame himself.
“I wasn’t hurt, Joel,” I remind him.
“You could have been.”
“But I wasn’t,” I insist calmly. “And Owen found out who did it.” I hesitate, then add, “Farah even came by today. She apologized.”
Surprise ripples across his face. “She did?”
“Yes. So, actually, everything’s fine.”
“Everything’s not fine.” He bites the words out, his jaw tight.
I search his face. “What are you really worried about?” I ask softly. “Checking my house, warning me to be careful—what’s that about?”
He keeps quiet, his face instantly turning wary.
And in his silence, my niggling sense that he’s worried about something—or someone else—being a threat is confirmed.
There are so many empty spaces in what he tells me. He’s so careful with his words. With his emotions. His secrets. Honestly, I’m tired of trying to second-guess everything about him.
“We tried to keep this quiet, but it isn’t working,” he says finally. “If anything, we’re drawing more attention to ourselves. For both our sakes, we should stop seeing each other.”
“Liar.” The shot of anger startles me, but the anger feels good. It feels better than the misery I’ve been fighting all day.
Surprise widens his eyes. “Did you just call me a liar?”
“I did,” I say defiantly. My knee-jerk instinct to apologize flares, but I shove it down. “The least you can do is have the guts to tell me the truth.”
