Page 136 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

I didn’t notice much on the way in, too nervous and excited—before I saw his sisters. Then I was slightly fearful for my life. Maybe once they all leave I can snoop around—respectable snooping—and see what the rest of his house is like.

His bedroom is neat almost to a frustrating level. I want to crack open one of his dresser drawers just to see if he’d immediately walk over and close it. I bet he has one of those feather duster things for the blades of his ceiling fan.

“You make your bed?” I feel stupid the second those words leave my mouth. But my palms are flat on his comforter, which is a charcoal gray. It’s a great fabric: soft, but it feels like it wouldn’t be too hot at night.

I’m stalling. I’m fully aware.

Van raises one dark brow. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now—my comforter?”

I don’t want to talk about anything, honestly. I’d like to curl into a tiny ball—maybe in the corner of his closet—and hide for the next ten years until I’ve matured into the kind of person who can face up to her mistakes or even recognize a mistake from a miscalculation or a misconceived notion. Maybe in ten years, I’ll be better at knowing what I want, unabashedly reaching for it, and being able to handle conflict like a mature person.

“I’m just a little surprised. By your room,” I say stupidly.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Van says. A challenge. “And clearly, a lot I don’t know about you.”

“What should we do about that?” I ask, and it comes out way huskier than I intend.

Van’s detached expression immediately gives away to surprise and then a wolfishness that makes my insides quiver. He doesn’t say the words but I swear his eyes are saying something like,I could present a list of ideas. Some suggestions. Perhaps a syllabus.

I am all ears.

But slowly, the look fades into something more somber.

“You can stay as long as you need to,” he says. “Is everything okay with you and your dad?”

My eyes start to burn. I shake my head slowly. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” Van says, and even though he’s talking about me and my dad, not the two of us in this room, hearing his words releases something in me.

I’ve been practicing an apology for days. All kinds of versions. Now … it just kind of drops out of me.

“I’m sorry too. About leaving you in Florida with just a note. I should have stayed. I should have asked you about it.”

“You could have yelled at me about it,” Van says. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d thrown my phone over the balcony.” He laughs at my expression—a kind laugh. “Somehow, I can’t picture that.”

“Did you watchThe Office?”

“Do bears beatBattlestar Galactica?” he asks with a smirk.

I throw my head back and laugh. “I think the line was ‘bears, beets,Battlestar Galactica.’”

“I like mine better. Yes. I watchedThe Office, Mills. Why?”

“Do you remember the season where things get really ugly between Jim and Pam? They have the horrible counselor who makes them speak their truths and it’s super cringey?”

“Are you going to suggest we try that?” Van makes a face.

“No! Definitely not. I’d rather eat beets. Or even bears. I was thinking today of the episode when Jim gets frustrated by all that and is going back to Philly. But Pam tells him to stay so they can fight.”

“I remember,” he says.

I slide my hands over the fabric of his comforter again, then curl my hands into fists and drop them in my lap. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Fight,” I admit. “I’m realizing I don’t know how to deal with conflict at all. I think I’m allergic. Or just … chicken.”

“Most people don’t deal with conflict head on. Not well, anyway,” Van says. “Then there are the people who dive straight into it head first when they should have worn a helmet.”

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