Page 77 of Not Catching Love

I throw up my hands. “Sorry. They’re both terrible. Happy?”

“Much.” Xander stands and gathers all the equipment up.

“You don’t have to stop because I’m here.”

“Bethany needs a nap,” he says, and at first, I assume he’s being his snarky self, but she nods.

“I’m dead on my feet this week. That damn stomach flu better not get me as well.” She squeezes Xander’s shoulder and leaves.

As he packs up, I debate whether to bring up what I heard, but it feels like being a sneaky liar not to.

“I eavesdropped on some of your conversation,” I tell him.

“I know. You think I didn’t see you lurking at the doorway?”

I catch my laugh in time. “I thought I was being sneaky.”

“You weren’t.”

“Damn. There goes my life in crime,” I mutter, helping him carry the paintbrushes to the sink.

The only sound is the rush of water from the tap and the paintbrushes knocking the side of the glass jar. “Go on. What did you want to ask me?”

“Nothing specific, but … could you tell me about it? Any of it?”

He smirks. “I could, but once I get started, I tend to trauma dump. Then you’ll want to give me sympathy, which isn’t something I want because I don’t connect with any of it anymore.”

“I think … well, it’s part of you. I’ve been, umm, reading up on neglect.”

His head shoots toward me. “Why?”

“Because I want to know you. I want to support you—notbe your carer, just support—with anything you need. And I think the more I know about you, the better I can do it.”

“I don’t need support though.”

“Lie.” He shoots me a glare. “Everyone needs support.”

“Even you?”

I want to talk about him, not me, but he does this a lot. Challenges me to share something with him first before he feels comfortable enough to share right back. The problem is, I’m not sure what to share. It needs to be personal so he knows I’m letting him in, but I don’t want to try and make my life sound bad because it wasn’t.

“When my grandad died, I needed a lot of support. I was eighteen, but we were close from the minute I was born, and then suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore, and it took a lot to adjust to. That’s the biggest example I can think of, but there are always moments of doubt. Always moments where I question if I’ve made the right decisions, especially when it comes to you.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I … feel … a lot. For you. And I can’t show you that, but I also don’t want you to think it’s because I’m playing with you or that I don’t care. Every day, I go back and forth on whether we should even be friends or if I should leave you alone. Am I taking advantage of your neglect without me even realizing it?”

“No.” His answer is fast. “If you were, you wouldn’t be questioning yourself. Besides, I might have my issues, but I’m not a pushover. I happen to have a really fucking good bullshit radar and don’t trust people easily. My brain plays tricks on me sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know what Iwant.” He drops his eyes to the floor and whispers, “I’ve been waiting my whole life for you. Just you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Somehow, that both makes me feel amazing and like fucking shit. I swallow around the lump building in my throat, nose oddly prickly. Instead of fighting myself on it, I reach for him. Xander folds into my arms like he’s always meant to be there.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you more right now. You deserve everything.”

“And who says you’re not already giving me that?”

I squeeze him tighter, and he squeezes me back.

Then he talks, and I’m not expecting what he says next. “I was in seventeen different homes. Five were where my nightmares came from. The other twelve ranged from okay to really good, but by the time I got to experience the really good, I think I was broken. I made them move me twice before I got too attached.”

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