Page 23 of I Could Be Yours

“I can tell you that, but I would be lying.” Good work. Not offensive and truthful.

“Oh my God!Oh my God.” Her voice rises, and her eyes flare with the panic I was hoping to avoid. She throws the roll of paper towels at me, but we’re standing close to each other, so it bumps between us and drops to the ground with the other one. She pokes me in the chest with a manicured nail. “This is your fault.”

“You pushed me,” I remind her.

“You followed me in here!”

“Because you were wandering around in the dark on your own!”Why do I even care?

“There’s a party fifty feet away!” She motions to the other side of the door.

“The bears are real!”

“Why are you obsessed with the fucking bears, Nate?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

“What is this really about? Are you still angry about limbodick?” Her eyes drop for a second, and she wrinkles her nose. “Stick.”

“That was a dirty move.”

She grins. “So dirty.”

“Pretty proud of yourself for that one, aren’t you?”

She tips her chin up. “Absolutely.”

“I’m already plotting my revenge tour,” I warn.

“And this is where it starts? By locking us in a shed together?” Her voice pitches up, real panic setting in as she pushes me out of the way and starts banging on the wood. “Hey! Someone let us out!”Bang, bang. “Anyone! We’re stuck thanks to fucking Nate.”

I grab her hands before she can slam them against the door again. “Stop! You’ll hurt yourself.” And that would also be my fault, which I can’t have. I already carry around enough guilt when it comes to Essie.

Her eyes are wide, and her voice trembles. “What if we’re stuck in here all night? What if we can’t get out? What if no one realizes we’re missing, and we die in here from inhaling riding lawn mower fumes?”

“We won’t die in here. Where’s your phone?”

“In my yurt, because all the people I text are outside this shed. Where’s yours?” She looks hopeful and less panicked for a second.

“Also in my yurt.” I let go of her wrists.

“Fuck.” She throws her hands in the air. “We are going to die in here.”

“That’s highly improbable.” But there is a chance we could be in here for a while. No one can hear us over the music. It’s only ten thirty, and the party is still going strong.

“What if we do? What if we pass out from the gas fumes? What if I irritate you to the point that you put me in a sleeper hold and end up accidentally killing me?” She sucks in an unsteady breath.

I curve my palms around her shoulders. Her skin is so soft, and smooth, and warm. “Take a breath, Essie.”

“You can’t be the last person I see!” she laments. “You hate me!”

“I don’t hate you.” But I do hate the way I feel when I’m around her—guilty, on edge, overstimulated, needy. I also dislike my inability to keep my distance or my feelings in check when she’s close to me. Like now.

“Liar! Every time I walk into the room, your black cloud of doom expands exponentially!”

“You’re giving yourself an awful lot of credit for my bad moods.”

I tighten my grip on her shoulders when she tries to move toward the door again.

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