Page 142 of My Merry Mistake
“For what?”
I shrug. “For hanging out with me again. It was . . . fun.”
“Wait. Did you use the F-word again?” He angles toward me, one arm draped along the back of the couch.
“I’ll try not to make it a habit.”
“You might want to.” He goes still. “You know I’d hang out with you anytime, Hart. That’s what friends do.”
Yes. Friends.Just friends. He finally seems to have accepted that, and now I’m the one who’s struggling? I havegotto get a hold of myself.
I nod. And because I desperately need some distance, I stand and pick up the empty popcorn bowl. I walk into the kitchen, but he grabs the mugs and follows me.
“You know, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about,” he says.
I glance back. “Oh?” I set the bowl in the sink.
“Justin . . .”
“I wondered if you’d ask about that.” I wince. “I can’t believe I told you—my sisters don’t even know.”
“You had to tell someone,” he says, like it’s no big deal.
“Like I needed to give you more reasons to think I’m a total disaster.” I try to match his nonchalance, but I think I fail.
“You’re not atotaldisaster,” he jokes. “Just a tiny one.”
I shoot him a look as I turn on the faucet and rinse the bowl.
“I’m glad you told me. It’s nice to see there’s a side of you that doesn’t have everything all figured out,” he says.
I flick the water off, and he motions for me to hand him the bowl.
He picks up a towel, dries it, then hands it back, and I put it away.
“I definitely don’t have everything figured out,” I say, realizing it’s true. I close the cupboard and face him.
He moves an inch closer. “Nobody does.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.” I lean back against the counter. I should make an excuse to go back into the living room, but I don’t. Instead, I stay still.
“So, what did you want to ask me?” I chew the inside of my lip, suddenly nervous.
“Not a question, really,” he says, shaking his head. “More of a clarification.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not that you don’t want to be with someone,” he says, like he’s thought about this. “You just don’t want to be in love with the person you’re with.”
I avoid his eyes. “Pretty much.”
“That’s weird,” he states.
“It wasn’t when I thought of it,” I say. “Part of me likes the idea of having someone . . .” I press my lips together, suddenly warm.
“And the other part?”
“Hates the idea of giving someone else the power to hurt me.”
