Page 101 of Catching Feelings

?CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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ROWAN

I’d do anything for you, Rowan. Except one thing. Stay away. I can’t stay away from you, no matter how badly you want me to.

I can’t stop thinking about the last thing Miles said to me before he left last night. He’s too perfect. Too wonderful. And I keep ruining things between us. More than anything, I want to be with him. He makes me feel...whole.

Seen.

But what kind of relationship can we have if I don’t know how to communicate? It’s a disaster waiting to happen. We’ll have fun, grow closer, have phenomenal sex. Like, the best sex in the entire universe, even without me voicing my fantasies. But when the newness simmers down, Miles will become annoyed with my walls.

Walls I so want to tear down, but I don’t know how. It’s not fair of me to ask him to be a mind reader, even though he’s been doing a fabulous job of it. I’ve never had a healthy relationship before and cover it up by keeping up my sunny personality and taking care of those around me.

Talking about my feelings, my wants, my desires, my annoyances, my dislikes, is so freaking hard, and I hate that. I’m sure to someone like Miles, who wears his heart on his sleeve and has no filter, it seems like an easy fix.

Just say what’s on your mind.

I wish.

I don’t know anyone who has the issues I have. Even my best friends are open and honest with their feelings. Kendall’s a lot like Miles. Zero filter and zero regrets about it, while Riley is somewhere in the middle.

Jackson is forthright with his thoughts and Taylor is too, but in a more private setting. He doesn’t air his dirty laundry or cause a scene, but I’ve heard him call Jackson out on a few things. They have a healthy relationship.

Communication. It all comes down to one simple word. One word that I struggle with. Even though I’m blessed with the best friends a girl could dream of, I still don’t feel comfortable confiding in them. It’s not because of anything Riley or Kendall have or haven’t done. It’s one hundred percent ameproblem.

And it’s never going to get better if I don’t do something about it. What thatsomethingis, I haven’t a clue.

I trudge up the stairs to my apartment, thankful Natalie hasn’t demanded I make a million stops on my way home from work. We have plenty of leftover lasagna and Thai food from last night, so there’s no need for me to cook.

That is, unless Natalie isn’t in the mood for Thai. I’ve been a doormat to her my entire life. When we were little, we used to fight all the time, but my parents always took her side. She was a competitive gymnast, and we needed to give her the space—mentally and physically—she desired to perform at top level.

Her catty behavior was always excused because of the pressure she was under. I was the selfish one to take attention away from her or to voice my needs when she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

I was selfish when I asked if we could go to McDonalds or have pizza for dinner. It wasn’t fair to Natalie, who was on a strict diet. So we all ate the way she did. It wasn’t until I moved out that I started cooking for myself. And I found joy in cooking for others.

I take off my gloves and unlock my apartment door, shivering at the cold. When I glance up, my feet lock in place.

“What did you do with my couch?” Natalie is sprawled out on a luxurious couch that barely fits the confines of my living room without looking ostentatious. I want to be upset at her for invading my space and getting rid of my furniture, but it’s simple and beautiful and looks way more comfortable.

“You didn’t tell me you were having a new one delivered so I didn’t know what to tell them to do with that piece of trash. If you wanted to keep it, you should have warned me. I didn’t have any makeup on and my hair was in a messy bun when the furniture guys came over. A little notice would have been respectful, Rowan.”

“I didn’t—” Wait. She didn’t order it? I cross the living room and run my hand along the side arm of the couch. It’s similar to the one Miles has in his apartment. The one we’ve cuddled on. The one I said was the most comfortable couch I’ve ever sat on, to which he made love to me, and then I added the most amazing couch I’ve ever had sex on.

To which he responded with a snarl and fucked me so hard into the cushions I thought my ass would leave a permanent mark. Mentioning I’ve had sex on a couch before didn’t make him happy, and he spent the afternoon erasing any past sexual partners from my memory.

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