Page 77 of Bossy Hero

With a huff, she gestures to my left. “In the cupboard. Middle shelf.”

“Excellent.”

I whistle as I grab the popcorn, throw a bag in the microwave, and return to the drawer to find a corkscrew to open the wine.

“What are you looking for?”

She’s practically growling at me. It’s heaven.

“Wine key thing? Corkscrew?”

“It’s a twist top, you ass!”

“Twist top?” I feign shock and click my tongue. “Maddie, come on. Have things gotten that bad?”

She snatches the bottle of wine out of my hands. “I happen to like it. And it’s not for you anyhow. I don’t feel like sharing it because you’re being a dick.”

Her uncharacteristically gritty language is making me gleeful as fuck.

“Psh. Rude.”

She puts the wine back in the fridge and points toward the front door. “Leave.”

I tip my chin toward the microwave. “My popcorn isn’t done yet.”

She brings both hands in front of her face, curling her fingers like she’s squeezing an invisible volleyball. “Alan! What the hell? Knock this shit off,” she bellows, finally letting loose some of her bottled-up anger. “What are you trying to prove? What the hell are you doing tonight?”

“I’m fighting for you, Maddie. And waiting for you to do the same. Just like I’ve been waiting for more than a damn decade. Now quit feeling sorry for yourself and fucking fight.”

Her chest heaves with her harried breaths. “You want me to fight for you?”

I shake my head, ardently denying her conclusion. “No. I don’t need you to fight for me because you’ve already had me since the first fucking night we met.” I get in her face, loving how she’s not backing down for once. “I want you to fight for yourself. For your own happiness. For your future. For your fucking broken heart. That’s what I want you to fight for, Maddie. Not for me. Fight for you.”

At the end of my somewhat-hostile rant, the microwave beeps three times, as if it agrees with me.

“How?” she asks with anger and determination still coating her tone.

“How what? How do you fight for yourself?” I clarify.

She nods.

“Tell me why you won’t let me love you. Be honest. Right fucking now. Not just with me. Be honest with yourself too.”

Her body vibrates with intensity, and there’s a sway to her frame. The pink in her cheeks isn’t from the tears anymore. Nor is it from shyness or because I said something flirty.

It’s resilience.

But she isn’t used to feeling her strength at the surface, and her customary behavior is to suppress it. To hide. After all, bears hibernate when the conditions are grueling.

Not letting her do that now.

Sensing she needs another nudge, I add, “Tell me why you’ll go out with someone who thinks it’s okay to force himself on you while the man you know won’teverhurt you is waiting with his heart in his hands. Do you want to be in a shitty relationship or something? Do you miss being someone’s punching bag?”

Saying the words hurts me, but nothing could hurt worse than watching her sacrifice another moment of happiness when she doesn’t have to.

She’s done that enough for one lifetime.

“No, no, no,” she stammers, head shaking vehemently. “I don’t want that.”

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