Page 106 of If You Claim Me
He believes he’s the team scapegoat, and so he stays in that space, maybe because it’s comfortable, maybe because it’s the expectation and he doesn’t know how to break it. For Meems, he’s the boy who refused to bend to his parents’ whims. To them he’s the problem child who continues to be a problem because they don’t understand him. So what does he think he is to me? The man I have to marry to keep the things I love? The man I chose to say yes to because I love his Meems as much as he does?
Or is it deeper than that now? Have all the lines blurred for both of us? It feels like they have, but I don’t have a lot of relationship experience—by design. I’m guarded. I have baggage and some pretty intense attachment issues.
But I like him.
I’m attracted to him.
And he’s attracted to me.
Yet this contract binds us with thorns that make it difficult to maneuver. It’s the piece that forces us to be one thing when maybe we want to be something else.
“I’m okay,” I tell him again. “And we can talk about it later, when I’ve had some separation from it, if that’s okay with you.” It’s too deep a look down my well right now.
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I don’t know how to read him now, and I’m too stuck in my own feelings to be able to mine through his.
“We can keep driving.” It’s better than sitting here, feeling awkward for having a meltdown on what’s supposed to be the start of our doesn’t-feel-as-fake-as-it-should honeymoon.
“Okay.” He leans over and kisses my temple.
I don’t know if I want to melt into the seat from his casual affection, cry, or jump out of the car and run all the way back to Toronto. All three seem reasonable.
“Talk to me about the Hockey Academy,” I say as we pull back onto the road.
Connor side-eyes me, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. “I’m not talking about the fucking sandwich.”
“I think you mean you’re not talking about fucking the sandwich.” This is better. I can handle verbal sparring, just not all the feelings that come from talking about my own past.
He huffs.
“Seriously, though. I’m not asking about the sandwich. And fucking a piece of bread has nothing on the shit Tristan does to Rix,” I mutter the last part.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasnotnothing. What does Tristan do to Rix?”
“Like I’m going to give you dirt you could use to piss off Flip.” Although they have been surprisingly cordial with each other lately. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did say something. And pissing Flip off isn’t in my best interest these days.”
“Because it would piss me off also?”
“Because it would upset you, and I don’t enjoy making you unhappy.”
He doesn’t elaborate on his reason for this, so I’m left to surmise on my own.
“I want to hear about your experience at the Hockey Academy,” I press.
“Only if you tell me what Tristan does to Rix.”
“I can’t. It breaks girl code.”
“I can’t tell you about the Hockey Academy because it breaks bro code,” he fires back.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not asking about your feud with Flip. I’m asking about the experience. You must have enjoyed it since you’re still tight with Kodiak and Quinn, and it was more than a decade ago.”
