Page 68 of Collided

I have no idea how she came up with this, but she’s fucking brilliant and creative.

Because of Emery, and the little jewelry that I wear, I have an eye for good stuff. Without a doubt, Hope makes good stuff. Amazing stuff.

She watches me with a tiny smile and flushed face. She’s embarrassed.

“This is beautiful,” I find myself saying. My true, honest opinion.

The crimson red in her cheeks suffuses more, and she refuses to make eye contact with me. “Thank you. I made these—” picking up a good amount “—last night.”

“You didn’t sleep?” I ask quickly.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

I notice the quiver in her voice. I want to ask her about it.

Something tells me that she’ll shut down. Like last night. The way she told me ‘Let it go, please.’ I’d be a fucking asshole to push her again.

Deciding not to ponder over it, I take out my phone and hand it to her.

For an hour, we take tons of pictures using the coffee table as a prop. Afterward, I help her make an Instagram account and teach her a few things about marketing. The more I tell her, the more she’s captivated. I find it fucking cute.

I’m losing my fucking mind. That’s what’s happening.

By the time we wind up, the night covers every inch of the sky with clouds flying in different forms.

Besides me, she posts the photos and closes the app in a hurry. “It’s done.”

“Nervous?” I ask as she hands me back my phone.

She nods. “Very much. I don’t know if anyone will buy it. It’s nerve-wracking.”

“The very first thing our business teacher taught us was ‘every opportunity in life is a risk.’ You either win or you learn.”

She rubs her arms. I immediately know she’s nervous.

It’s puzzling how easily I read her. Her body language speaks to me. I can’t help but store every new thing I learn about her because I want to.

“You’re right. It’s not like I have anything to lose.”

“This will fucking work,” I assure her, so she doesn’t look sad. For some strange reason that frown and worry swimming in her eyes tug the strings of my numb heart.

A smile dances on her lips. “Thank you for helping me. I wish I could help you back in some way.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“There could be something.”

I lean back and turn my head toward her. “Don’t fucking dwell over it.”

Mimicking me, she leans back and turns her head toward me. “I’m not used to kindness.”

“You should get used to it.”I’ll be offering you a fucking lot of it.

“You’re a good person.”

I don’t say anything.

Deep down I know that I’m not. I hurt people with my icy tone. That’s not something a good person does.

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