Page 65 of What If I Hate You
I'm fine. Just… processing.
Marlee
Processing what? Good processing or bad processing?
I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. How do I explain that I'm processing the way Barrett looked at me like I hung the moon, then retreated the moment morning arrived?How do I tell them that I'm terrified I've ruined everything by being exactly who I am—someone who overthinks and puts up a wall with anyone who feels threatening?
Me
He's making coffee. I think I fucked this up already.
Ella
What happened?
Me
Nothing. Everything.
The scent of coffee drifts from the kitchen, and I realize I can't hide in his bedroom forever. I throw on my clothes from last night, a wrinkled blouse and pants that feel foreign after being naked in Barrett's arms. I look like exactly what I am: a woman doing the walk of shame.
When I finally emerge, Barrett is leaning against his counter, coffee mug in hand, staring out the window as Killer plays with his own tail at his feet. He's still shirtless, and the morning light catches the scratches I left across his shoulders. He doesn't turn when I enter.
"Coffee's fresh," he says to the window. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the pot."
The politeness in his voice is worse than his usual gruffness. At least when he was an asshole, I knew where I stood. This careful distance feels like being handled with rubber gloves. I pour myself coffee with hands that are steadier than they should be, considering the man standing five feet away just made me forget my own name multiple times last night. The silence stretches between us like a minefield, and I'm not sure which of us is going to step on the explosive first.
"Thank you," I say, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug. "For the coffee. And for… last night."
He finally turns to look at me, and I catch something raw flickering across his features before he masks it. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't thank me like I did you some kind of favor." His jaw ticks, and I can see the walls slamming back into place. "We're both adults. We both wanted it."
I take a sip of coffee to buy myself time, trying to decode whatever's happening in his head. "Barrett?—"
"You should…”
"I should what?" I challenge, setting my mug down harder than necessary. The clink echoes in the suddenly too-quiet kitchen, and Killer looks up from his tail with wide, curious eyes.
Barrett's grip tightens on his coffee mug. "You should probably get going. Don't want to be late for work."
The dismissal hits me like a slap, and I feel my spine straighten automatically. It’s the same defensive posture I use when some asshole reporter tries to put me in my place.
"Right. Of course." I force a smile that feels like broken glass. "Thanks for the reminder."
Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe, or frustration—but it's gone before I can be sure. "Blakely, I didn't mean?—"
"No, you're absolutely right." I'm already moving toward the table where I left my bags, my movements mechanical and practiced. I roll my eyes though he can’t see them at the moment. "Wouldn't want to be late for work. What would people think?"
"That's not what I—" He sets his mug down and takes a step toward me. "Rivers, will you just?—"
"Look, it's fine." I grab my bag, refusing to meet his eyes. "Last night was… great. Really. But you're right, we're adults. No need to make this complicated."
I'm lying through my teeth. It's already complicated. It was complicated the moment he found me crying in that bathroom, maybe even before that. But I'll be damned if I let him see how much this sudden coldness hurts.
"Is that what you want?" he asks, his voice softer now. "For this to be uncomplicated?"
