Page 94 of Better Hate than Never

Christopher chokes on his wine.

Mom slaps him on the back. “Serves you right for shotgunning a gorgeous Sancerre like it’s moonshine. I’m going to take this with me and attempt to extricate Bill from the book I saw him pick up as soon as I left the room. Wish me luck.”

Sweeping up the bread Christopher half massacred and the wine bottle in the crook of her arm, she disappears through the swinging dining room door.

He watches the door fall shut, then rounds on me. “Give me a chance to explain first, before you go on some vengeful bender tonight.”

I hold his eyes, nerves coursing through me. “Fine. Explain, then.”

“I—” His eyes rake down me slowly, then slip shut. He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, blowing out a slow, heavy breath. “Christ, Katerina.”

“What?” I ask, hearing how defensive I sound, but frankly, it feels justified.

“I can’t think straight, let alone talk right now, looking at you.”

“Why not?”

He groans, dropping his hand. “You know what you’re wearing. You know how beautiful you look. And you know it’s killing me.”

Warmth crests up my throat and spills into my face. I set a hand against my cheek, trying to cool it. “Maybe I wanted to wear something... a little eye-catching. I was feeling vindictive. I woke up this morning, and you were gone, and I was... upset. I wantedto make you pay for leaving me like you’ve left every other woman you—”

“Don’t,” he says, storming toward me. I step back as he advances on me, until my back hits the counter. I can’t help but remember not even a month ago being in this very same position—caged inside his arms, his hands planted on either side of the counter, staring me down.

You werealwaysneeded.

That’s what he said. I hate that passive sentence structure. I want to knowwhoneeded me. I want it to be him. I want to know why he’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him, like he’s searching for solid ground to stand on, like he’s just as lost in this as I am.

“There is nothing,” he says quietly, his hand settling at my waist, “routine or typical about what happened last night. I didn’t leave because you were ‘just some other woman.’ ”

I pull back, stunned. “Christopher—”

“Please.” He swallows roughly, stepping closer, his hand massaging my waist, drawing me toward him. “Give me the chance to explain. Don’t go, Kate. Don’t leave.”

Those words do something to me, turn the part of me that’s always been hard and implacable, soft and pliant. I feel warm and willing and a little frightened.

Our eyes hold as I do what I haven’t felt brave enough to do before—reach out when I’m afraid; try, even when I’m nursing wounded pride. I lace our hands together and squeeze his, a reassurance.

“I’m listening,” I whisper.

His eyes flicker; some of the tension eases in his shoulders. “This isn’t an excuse. And I can only promise you I wouldn’t have left otherwise, but it’s up to you to believe me.” His jaw clenches as he stares down at the ground, sighing heavily. “I started a migraine.A bad one. I panicked. I didn’t want to get sick in front of you. I don’t... I don’t do that around other people. I’m used to handling it myself. So I took my preventative med and rushed home, and then I slept the whole fucking day somehow and woke up in a panic because I knew how it would hurt you, for me to be gone, for you not to hear from me all day. I...” He swallows roughly, tearing his gaze up, finding mine. “I never want to hurt you, Kate.”

The kitchen is quiet, my parents’ voices distant, somewhere deep in the house. Steam curls off the soup on the range. The lights are soft, glowing. I feel like time’s dissolved, like the world’s been paused as I stare at him, my heart flitting like a hummingbird against the cage of my ribs.

Gently, I slide my hands up his chest and feel air rush out of him. I search his eyes, crossing that bridge inside myself from familiar fear to newfound trust. To hope. “I believe you.”

His eyes dart back and forth, searching mine. “You do?”

I nod, my hand circling his pounding heart. “I do. I’m sorry you were hurting so badly. I wish—”

“I’m fine.” Words evaporate on my tongue as Christopher drags his thumb over my bottom lip, his fingertips whispering along my throat, then down, across my collarbone. “After this,” he says quietly. “Let me take you home. Please.”

I bite my lip, a thrill coursing through me. “You want me to come to your house?”

“Your apartment, I meant. In the city.” He leans in as if he’s going to kiss me but seems to stop himself. His eyes dart down to my breasts, and he groans.

“What is it?”

“That damn sweater. Don’t you have anything else to wear? I can see straight to your belly button.”

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