Page 132 of Whistle

“Lance was lucky you loved him.”

“No. He wasn’t.” His voice was sure. “And that’s why I wanted you to know. This is why I’m single. Why I don’t date. Why my daughter—or anyone—doesn’t know I’m gay. I’ve kept my world small and well controlled. It’s easier that way.”

“Less chance of getting hurt again,” I murmured.

“Less chance of hurting anyone else,” he amended.

“I hate he did this to you.”

His face whipped up, surprise animating his face. “What?”

“He made you afraid to love. To live. You deserve better, Emmett. So much more.”

Anger darkened his eyes. I liked it a lot better than the hollow, bereft look he’d worn before. “Don’t put that on him.”

I was familiar with death. Loss. Anger. But right now, I was woefully out of my depth. I had no idea what to say.

Grief and loss are polarizing for everyone, but it manifests in different ways. They often say no two people read the same book. Just as no two people grieve the same.

I mean, just look at us. He had closed himself off, and I went wild.

Even though my limbs felt weary, even though my fingers and toes stung with cold and going near the water again was the last thing I wanted, I went to him. Crawled across the unforgiving tile on hands and knees. His haunting, brooding stare observed me, his face a mix of want and pain. Moments later, I reached him, rose to my knees, and looped my arms around his neck to hug him tight. Both of us were so cold there was no warmth at all between us, but it didn’t matter.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against his skin. “I know it hurts, and I’m so sorry.”

His chest expanded with a deep inhale, and then his arms locked around me, squeezing me close like he was afraid I might slip away. “It was a long time ago.” He tried to be stern and dismissive.

I wouldn’t let him dismiss this. “But you’ve been frozen in time.”

He made a rough sound. “I don’t want your pity.”

“That’s good because you aren’t going to get it,” I smarted. He was so infuriating! Couldn’t he see I was trying to be sweet?

He laughed beneath his breath, the sound lighting me up with joy and chasing away some of the melancholy hanging in the air.

“Brat.”

Smiling into his neck, I snuggled closer.

“I asked for time, and you gave it. But I offered nothing in return.”

That acknowledgment squeezed my heart and made me realize it was something that hurt me. So naturally, I made light of it because, bro, this conversation was heavy. “I wouldn’t exactly call your dick nothing.”

“Be serious,” he scolded.

“I am.”

He sighed. “I’m not good at this, Bodhi.”

Not Goldilocks. Not sweetheart, baby, or brat. I guess it could have been worse. It could have been my last name. “Good at what?”

“Loving someone.”

The words caught in my chest as if my heart had locked them in a cage. Loving someone. It wasn’t exactly a love confession, but it wasn’t not one either. And to my heart, it was mere semantics.

“The last man I cared about ended up dead.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how he died, but really, the result was the same and this conversation was hard enough.

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