Page 29 of Between the Lines

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” I told him again. “I wasn’t trying to imply that you were some kind of bad guy, or that you needed help respecting your girl. That wasn’t about whoyouare, it’s about whoIwant to be. And I don’t want to be the girl getting in the way of somebody’s relationship.Ididn’t know you and Stella weren’t a thing anymore—you know how to keep a relationship out of the spotlight,clearly,” I reminded him. “So I acted based on what I thought I knew—I decided to err on the side of caution by not overstepping the same boundaries I would want. That’s all it was.”

Shaw’s gaze dropped, and for a second I thought he was about to reject my words. But then, he pushed out another deep sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face before he spoke.

“I’m sorry too—for reading more into it than you meant, and reacting instead of…asking for clarity,” he said. “Clearly, it’s still…sensitive.”

I nodded. “Understandably. That’s why I wanted to make sure you understood. I’m not…thereanymore.”

“Good.” He straightened up, pushing hands into the pockets of his sweats. He was wearing a shirt now, unlike last night, but it was still a sight to behold. “And…I have to say…or maybe it’s weird to say, but…thank you for expressing what you needed to.”

A dry chuckle pushed out before I could help it. “Yeah, I…gotta grow up at some point, right?”

“We all do,” he agreed, biting down on his lip.

Holding my gaze.

Was this…were we having a moment?

“Let me…get to these eggs before I burn this skillet up,” he muttered, turning away as I realized the stove had been on—with said skillet getting hotter and hotter—this whole time.

“My bad,” I offered, coming around to where he was to see if there was anything I could do. “How can I help?”

“I got it,” he insisted. “You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

“I am?”

“Yes, go sit your ass down somewhere,” he said, ushering me out of the kitchen.

I only complied because I felt like I needed…a breath.

That whole interaction had been a little stressful.

Alot.

Actually articulating myself in tough conversations wasn’t exactly my strong suit, but for the last year or so, I’d been working on it.

In therapy.

Thatshift had been exactly the breakthrough I needed to start coming out of some of myowntoxic behaviors—stuff that was so normalized I couldn’t even see it, because nearly everybody around me was doing the same thing or had the same beliefs.

What was the point in talking about what you felt, what was bothering you, when the man didn’t care anyway? That was the prevalent messaging—girl, don’t send that paragraph, he ain’t reading all that!

It contributed to this idea that it was better to smother your feelings, that the appropriate response your partner did something that bugged you was to simply “match their energy.” As if the person you were supposed to feel safe with, and love, and care for was the enemy combatant in a war.

It was sick, actually.

So much of the absolute worst in unhealthy communication was. And in the absence of healthy examples outside of maybe my brother, it was all too easy to find myself believing the pervasive idea that any passably handsome man with a modicum of swag, especially if he had a little money, was secretly “for the streets,” no matterwhatlies they spun.

It wasn’t as if experience didn’t back it up.

I started dating at fifteen or sixteen years old, which meant six or seven years of firsthand fuckboy experience before I ever met Shaw.

It was part of the appeal—in addition to literally everything else about him—that he wassodifferent from anyone else I’d dated. Polar opposite to the last boyfriend before him, an appropriately stage-named rapped calledHellion.

He wasn’t even that much older.

Just two years, anddamnthose years made a difference.

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