Page 63 of The Defender
Vincent stilled. He looked up from the stove, his face filled with genuine surprise. “What makes you think I’m mad at you?”
“Just…your vibes.” It sounded stupid when I said it out loud, but my vibe checker had never steered me wrong.
He set the spatula down. “I’m not mad at you, but I am a little insulted you think I’d get upset over one unanswered text.”
I desperately regretted bringing up the text again, but it was too late to turn back. I forged ahead. “Okay. You’re not mad, but you have to admit this is a little weird.” I gestured between us. “We usually have a much easier time talking to each other.”
His jaw twitched. “That’s because I don’t want to be around you right now.”
I’d goaded him into it, but his words still sent me reeling. The air evacuated from my chest, and I had to breathe through the sudden pressure stinging my throat.
One. Two. Three.
I pressed my lips together and forced a tight smile. “But you say you’re not mad at me.”
It didn’t make sense. Bet aside, I shouldn’t care this much about what Vincent thought of me. If he didn’t want to hang out anymore, fine. We’d always existed on the periphery of each other’s lives, drawn together more by circumstance than by choice.
But did that still hold true? I’d chosen to let him live here, and he’d chosen to move in. Our texts, our talks, the Zenith dinner and the arcade—all choices we’d made to spend time together beyond what was necessary. Some of it was to further our chances at winning the bet, but not all of it was. And that scared the hell out of me.
Vincent let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s not why I don’t want to be around you.”
“Then what’s the reason? Either tell me, or leave,” I snapped.
I was tired and stressed and confused. My eyes burned for no discernible reason. I didn’t have the energy to play Guess What Vincent’s Talking About anymore.
“Fine. You want to know the reason?” He walked toward me, his movements precise and controlled, like a predator prowling toward its prey. “Thereasonis because I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was gone. Then I come home to see you sitting there, doing nothing except existing, and I can’t fucking breathe.” His voice was low and taut. “Maybe you were right. Iampissed at you because you can float through the kitchen, making pancakes and cracking jokes, while I’m using every goddamn ounce of willpower not to touch you.That’swhy I don’t want to be around you. You’re killing me, and you don’t even know it.”
He stepped forward with every word; I stepped back. Soon, I was pressed against the counter, trapped between cold tile and the searing heat of his body.
My mouth was so dry I could only scrounge up a whisper. “Then why’d you stay?”
“Because I can’tfuckingsay no to you if I tried.” The words ground through his teeth, stripped of their usual playfulness.
My heart slammed against my ribcage. The room tilted, and I had the curious sensation of free falling despite being rooted to the ground.
Vincent and I had circled each other for weeks, taunting, flirting, and at times genuinely connecting. We’d ended up here, teetering on the precipice of something new—and I was terrified.
He sounded sincere. His eyes pinned me to the spot, and he was so close I couldn’t breathe without inhaling him into my lungs.
But he didn’t kiss me. Despite the intensity of his speech, he kept a minuscule distance between us, just enough for my doubts to surface.
Did he mean what he said? Or was this another ploy to win?
“Is it really because of that, or is it because of the bet?”
Vincent stilled. “The bet,” he repeated, his voice flat.
I knew immediately I’d said the wrong thing. I tried to salvage the situation and somehow made it worse. “It’s a fair question.”
His expression iced over. “Not everything is about the bet, Brooklyn.”
He straightened and took a small step back. The tension fizzled like helium leaking out of a popped balloon.
“I’m not implying you’re a liar. I was—I mean I’m…” I faltered, wishing I were more eloquent. More certain. Simplymore.
This always happened. Something good came along, and I’d find a way to ruin it. If I had a therapist, they’d probably call it self-sabotage.
I couldn’t help it. People liked the shiny, bubbly version of me, but if they saw what a mess I was on the inside, they’d leave. It was easier to keep them at arm’s length and to push them away first than to suffer the devastation of them abandoning me.
