Page 180 of Gym Bros
He looks off down the street and blows out a breath that forms a cloud in the cold. “My mom said the same thing, but I thought I might rather stay here.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re here.”
“But you broke up with me.”
“If you’re not gonna let me come in, just tell me, because I have a much warmer place I can go.”
Fuck. I step out of the way and let him in the door, closing it quickly behind him because wet cold is a special kind of bone-chilling.
He immediately removes his hat and jacket, both covered in drizzle. I take them off his hands, hanging them on the hooks where I keep my outerwear. He stays in the entryway, and I don’t urge him in any further yet. To be honest, I’m not sure I want him here.
Being alone sucks, but being with someone who hurt me—who I hurt—is potentially much worse.
“Are you sure you want to be here?” I ask.
He glances at me, then nods. “Is that okay?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I couldn’t go home,” he tells me.
“Okay. Did something else happen?”
He shakes his head. “No. I just can’t see my dad right now.”
I can’t meet his eyes anymore. There’s too much there. Every emotion ever created. “I get that.”
“I mean, I don’t expect you to get it. I heard he’s going with you to Europe, so obviously it’s not an issue for you.”
Fucking Rachel. She’s the only one who knows about that. I mean, she probably told Priya, too, if I came up in conversation, but Rachel is the only one who would blab to Samuel about it.
“Nothing’s happened,” I say. “Nothingwillhappen.”
“That’s up to you,” he says.
“Okay,” I say shortly and walk away from him. That hurt. I’m not sure he meant for it to, but it was the equivalent of a sucker punch. And Samuel throws a strong punch. I need my wine for this.
Without looking back, I retake my spot on the couch, pull my blanket over my lap, and make sure Siva is situated as a barricade.
Samuel lingers in the living room doorway, his gaze flicking from the TV, to me, to the cat, then the other end of the couch. “You can come in,” I say, and I sound like I’m dreading it as much as I actually am.
He starts to take off his shoes, like he usually does—used to do—when he comes over but then looks at me again.
I just nod for him to go ahead.
He does, and I tell him if he wants some wine to grab a glass. He doesn’t. He does, however, sit on the couch with me. On the opposite end, but I’m glad for that. If he sat in one of the chairs, I would have been fucking shattered. And the realization of that makes me also realize there’s still more inside me to break.
I want to ask if he came over to finish the job, but I don’t want to fight with him. I have no right to pick a fight with him. He hasn’t done anything wrong. That was all me.
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
“Next Wednesday.”
“For how long?”
I shrug. “Depends.”
