Page 27 of All Your Pucking Secrets

“Leaving practice,” I say, deciding it’s in my best interest to play dumb.

Her glare intensifies and she waves the gifts in my direction. “I mean with these.”

I raise my chin. “I’m wooing you the way I should have back then.”

“W-wooing me?” she stutters, blinking rapidly, having apparently not expected that response.

“Yes. I want you to have nice things. You deserve to. I didn’t treat you as well as I should have in the past, but I’m going to make it up to you.”

If it takes my last fucking breath, I’ll make sure she knows how much she means to me.

“You…what?” She shakes her head and thrusts them toward me. “Just take them. I can’t keep them.”

“Why not?” I ask.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her lips press together, and she huffs through her nostrils.

“I just can’t,” she says. “I won’t accept gifts from you. Take them back.”

I slide one of my hands into my pocket and use the other to hold onto the strap of my duffel bag, so neither of them are free to take anything from her.

“They’re yours.” My tone is firm. “You can sell them and use the money to pay for something you actually want if that’s what you’d prefer, but whatever happens, I’m not taking them.”

She nervously runs a finger along the wire arm of her glasses. “You can’t just give me random gifts. These must be worth hundreds of dollars.”

Thousands, actually.

I shrug. “It’s my choice what I do with my money. I choose to spend it on you. What you do with my gifts is up to you.”

Her eyelashes flutter, and is it just me, or do her glasses seem to be fogging up? “Why won’t you just let me go?”

My heart squeezes, and my insides roll nauseatingly. The anguish in her voice makes me want to be sick. My lips part but no words emerge.

Her shoulders slump. “Haven’t you done enough to me?”

Oh, fuck. Fuck. She’s going to cry.

If she keeps this up, I might cry too. My throat is tight, emotion choking me.

“That’s not what this is,” I whisper, barely audible.

She steps back and tucks the book underneath her arm while she uses her other hand to remove her glasses and wipe the lenses.

“Is this all some kind of twisted game to you?” she asks.

“No.” I reach for her, but the second I touch her arm she recoils so much that she stumbles. “I love you.”

Three little words I’ve never said to anyone else. Not Mom. Not Soraya. Sure as hell not that asshole who tried to mold me in his image.

“I’ve always loved you, even if I haven’t shown it well.”

She scoffs and swipes at her eyes. “Yeah. You have a unique way of making me feel so loved.”

I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood, and it reminds me of the first day I ever wanted to kiss her. After she saw how my father treated me and somehow looked past my threatening bluster to react with kindness.

“You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved,” I tell her. “I haven’t been with anyone since you. I haven’t even kissed anyone else since the day we broke up. I know that doesn’t make things right, but I want a second chance, and I can explain if you’re willing to listen.”

She puts her glasses back on, and the air between us chills ten degrees. I can tell by the way she’s doing it that those glasses represent a barrier between us that she’s fortifying with every breath she takes.

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