Page 118 of Forever We Fall

“Shut up, or I’ll make you fold my underwear.” He turns back to his large pile.

To keep my mind off his underwear and what I’d like to do with them, I fold the shorts, move farther into the room, and set them in the proper stack.

“Someone told me I should read more. That it’s good for me.”

“This person sounds brilliant.” I grin.

He grins back and tosses me another pair of shorts.

We fold in companionable silence for a minute or two. The stacks of folded clothes are huge, and the remaining pile is pretty big.

“How long has it been since you’ve done laundry?”

“A while.” He folds the shirt he’s holding and sets it down with more force than necessary. “I kinda lost my laundry buddy.”

My heart plummets.

“Your wrestling friends have plenty of laundry, I’m sure.” I force through my swelling throat.

“I bet they do. Doesn’t mean I want them seeing my underwear.”

“Oh.” I can’t say any more. If I do, it’ll lead us down a path that has an abrupt end. He wants me to see his underwear. I want to see his underwear. But I can’t do it without totally losing my shit.

Wonderful.

“I hate that you push me away.” Hota tosses his unfolded shirt onto the bed and stalks to the chair that used to be my reading chair. Now, I guess it’s his.

I hate that I push you away too.

I love that you always let me come back.

I’m an abusive asshole. Using you.

Tension tugs at my shoulders. Regret sours my mouth.

My lips part to speak, though I don’t know what to say that hasn’t already been said.

“I know why you do it.” He slouches into the chair and stares at his shoes. “Other people are easier to deal with than I am.”

“Not in the way you think, Hota.” I lean against the side of his bed and slide to the floor. The surface is cold and hard under my cheeks.

His gaze lifts to me, narrow and cautious. “How do I think?”

“You think they’re less trouble, less history, less secrets. And they are, but that’s not why.”

“Then why?” he barks. The hurt is prominent in his usually stoic features.

“Because I don’t care about them. I don’t want to touch them. To kiss them. To hold them and never let them go.” I rub my hand over my tattered heart.

Hota scrubs a hand down his face. The other is clenched in a fist. His cheeks are red, and his eyes flare with despair. “If that’s what you want, Arlo, do it.”

If only it was that simple.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, anger spiking my veins. “You know I can’t. You know why I can’t.”

“Yeah. I do.” He shoots up from his chair and heads for the door. At least, I think that’s where he’s headed. His long strides carry past me, and he swerves left into the bathroom. A moment later, he comes back with three envelopes.

He tosses them toward me. Before they land, he grabs his heap and returns to the chair. “Let’s get this over with, huh?”

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