Page 88 of Faux Real
“Do I look scared to you, Kennedy?” he asks, cocking his head.
“Yes,” I nod, my throat parched. “Terrified actually.”
“Well I’m not,” he says, lacking conviction. “I’m not afraid of anything. Especially not you.”
“Lies.” I shake my head. “If you’re not scared, then why do you drink so much, huh?”
Silence lingers between our two wet bodies as his face twists up into thought.
“Do you want me to stop drinking?” he whispers, avoiding eye contact. “Would that make you happy?”
“It’s not about my happiness, Ollie,” I say, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s about yours.”
“Why not both?” he asks, looking up at me. “Could be symbiotic... if we tried.”
“Is that what you want? To be... symbiotic?”
“Do you?” he asks, his gaze flickering down to my parted lips. “What do you want, Kennedy? Tell me what you want from me.”
“Nothing,” I lie, my heart beating in my chest. “I don’t want anything.”
“Now you’re the liar,” he notes. “I see you, Kennedy, you know that, right? Iseeyou.”
It’s an unwelcome emotion, vulnerability. Like standing naked before a crowd. A crowd that judges you. Every single thing. They want perfection. Always. But I’m not perfect. Far from it. He can’t see me. He doesn’t know me. He can’t know me. I don’t want him to know me.
“Kenny,” he whispers, cupping my cheek. “Stop thinking so hard and let yourself feel. For once in your life, don’t think.”
“What doyouwant, Ollie?” I ask hesitantly. “What doyoufeel?”
He swallows. “You know what I want.”
“Say it then. You claim you’re not scared, so say it, Oliver. Tell me what you want.”
He blinks. “Not good at reading between lines, are you Carmichael?”
“See?” I hum, nibbling on my bottom lip. “You can’t do it.”
He expels an airy laugh. “I wish I could turn your brain off for justonefucking second. Maybe then you wouldn’t need words.”
I squint. “Words are important, Oliver.”
“Actions speak louder than words if I recall correctly,” he retorts. “Or do you not abide by that particular adage?”
“Actions have consequences,” I counter.
He rolls his eyes. “No risk, no reward.”
I snort, crossing my arms. “All that glitters is not gold.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Oliver huffs, hanging his head. “This could go on for hours.”
“It sure could,” I hum. “Listen, maybe uh— maybe we can have this conversation later, okay?”
His head snaps up. “Later? As in thereisa conversationtobe had?”
I purse my lips, taking in a deep breath. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
