Page 69 of Better Hate than Never

I nod, clenching my jaw tight so the truth won’t spill out: that I hate that she’s hurting, but I’m so glad she’s letting me comfort her; that I could hold her like this forever, wrap myself around her, shield her from everything that would hurt her, if she’d let me.

I don’t confess that. Not when I’ve spent so long battling those feelings that admitting them would be to surrender to them. Not when she’s upset like this, when such a proclamation would ring hollow coming from someone who’s spent so long trying to make her think I feel the very opposite of that.

Kate lets out a long, heavy sigh that tells me the tears are done for now, that she’s calmer.

I should leave now. I brought her phone, gave her comfort when she was upset. I should get the hell out of here before I lose the last grip on my dignity, before it’s impossible to hide what I’ve hidden for so long:

How much I want her.

HowlongI’ve wanted her.

How much I’ve hated that want, gnawing at me like a sickness.

It’s always been Kate. And in my fury that my feelings for her were entirely beyond my control, I’ve pushed her away and hurt her. In repressing my worry for her, my fierce desire for her, the only woman I want and the woman whose wild lifestyle puts my heart most at risk of losing a loved oneagain, my feelings have pressurized into a festering knot of misery.

I’m so tired of being miserable.

I’m so tired of resisting what I feel.

Which is why I should go. Because I’m about to not just give up the act but give in to it, and I’ve done more than enough to reveal myself today—when she touched me at the office, and I clung to her like a dog panting at the pleasure of being petted.

But God, I want her. I want her so deeply, so badly, it’s an ache in my marrow. I don’t know if I can fight that ache anymore when she’s here, in my arms, and finally, shewantsto be.

My arms tight around her, I tell her quietly, carefully, “I can go, if you want to be alone.” She tenses in my arms, and I hold herclose, praying she feels how badly I want to be here with her, how badly I hope she wants me here, too. “Or... I could stay for a while.”

It’s a lifetime in a moment as I wait for her answer.

Then her arms tighten around me, and she whispers, “Stay. Please.”

•TWENTY-ONE•

Kate

My eyes scrunch shut as those words hang in the air.Stay. Please.

I feel so exposed. So scared. All day long, I’ve been warring with myself. My brain screams this is the man who’s made me miserable for so long, I can barely remember when he didn’t. My body firmly disagrees, each calm beat of my heart saying that what I’m seeing of Christopher isn’t a ruse but a revelation, that he’s always cared, always been safe, but for some bewildering reason, didn’t want me to see him that way.

Maybe it’s only been a few seconds since I asked, but it feels like it’s been hours, when Christopher dips his head, his cheek resting against my hair. Gently, his hand drifts up my back in slow, soothing strokes. “Of course I’ll stay.”

Relief rushes over me like water across parched earth, until I’m overflowing with it. There’s a lump in my throat again. My eyes prick with fresh tears.

As he holds me, I soak up the comfort of resting in his arms, the trace of spicy woodsmoke mingled with something warm and familiar, the simple scent of his skin. It feels strange and wonderful and right. It feels like home.

Christopher’s stomach growls, and the sound reverberates up to my ear, pressed against his torso. “Someone’s hungry. Have you had dinner?” I ask.

“I haven’t. Have you?” he asks quietly.

I burrow deeper against his chest, not wanting this to end, not knowing what comes next. “Sort of.”

He circles his hand over my back again. “In case you’re wondering,” he adds, “dill pickle chips do not qualify as dinner. Not even when combined with a doughnut.”

I smile in spite of myself. “Tragically, we don’t have any doughnuts right now. If dill pickle chips don’t count, no, I haven’t had dinner. And we’re low on groceries. As in, we have none. But I order a mean take-out meal.”

A soft laugh gusts out of him. His fingers glide through my hair at the nape of my neck, massaging. The pleasure of my sensory needs being met finally settles the waves of disbelief that have been cresting inside me, how notusthis is—his patience and calm, my quiet stillness, my arms squeezing him tight, his hands rubbing steady circles over my back, his fingers combing softly through my hair.

“I could make some pasta,” he says, “if you’re hungry for that.”

“Pasta sounds good. I don’t know if we have any, though. I was supposed to go to the store and grab groceries, but when I came home, I got sidetracked with cuddling Cornelius the hedgehog, then he shit on me, and I had to change my clothes, which is when I realized I had a lot of dirty laundry, but I hadn’t put away my clean laundry, either, which meant I couldn’t tell what was clean from what was dirty, and then I got really overwhelmed by the mess and debated throwing out all my clothes and joining a nudist colony, except I’m not at all into the concept of communal nakedness, so that was out.” I suck in a breath, then exhale unsteadily. “And then I sat down with a bag of chips to eat my feelings and fell down the horrible news rabbit hole. So, yeah. Not sure about the pasta.”

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