Page 29 of Give My Everything
She slips her shoes on at the door as I pull it open and we both walk outside, the damp beachside air dusting our skin with moisture.
“You know, I’m still trying to figure out why you have any interest in this marriage thing,” she says, abruptly shifting the direction of the conversation. “I mean, from everything we’ve talked about—though I know we haven’t talkeda lot—it seems like I’m the only one who benefits.”
My lips twist as we continue the short journey to her car, a blue BMW I would guess belongs to one of her brothers if the racing kit is anything to go by.
Remmy doesn’t seem like the type.
“I’ve already told you,” I reply, tucking my hands into my pockets as she unlocks the doors. “I’m interested in finding a way to get my—”
“Parents off your back…yeah, you did tell me that.”
She pauses, her eyes searching for something in my face that I’m worried she’ll find.
“I guess I just…don’t entirely believe you.”
I don’t say anything at her statement, not liking the way her head tilts to the side as she examines me.
“You’re a great listener, Ben, and you seem like a pretty decent guy if your willingness to deal with my sobbing and throwing up is any kind of indicator.” She steps forward, her body close to mine, her hand reaching out and taking the tail of my tie between her fingers.
The move doesn’t feel sexual, although it might from someone else.
It does feel intimate. Too intimate.
Closer than I want or need.
“You’re not very good at lettingmebe a good listener, though,” she continues, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. “You seem like a guy who doesn’t want to let anyone get too close. Even now, just this right here…I can see how you’re bristling at what I’m doing.”
My nostrils flare.
Not oblivious then—just uncaring.
Another thing I don’t need.
“Are you one of those guys who’s full of secrets, Ben?” she asks, continuing to ignore that I don’t want her standing so near, watching me so meticulously.
I tug my tie out from between her fingers and step back.
“If I had secrets to share with anyone, Remington, it definitely wouldn’t be with someone like you.”
My words are blunt and carved in a way meant to strike and wound. It’s something I’m good at. Always have been.
Though I’ve never cared about the outcome.
Stick Wyatt in front of me, or one of my parents, maybe a business colleague, and I say exactly what I mean in a way that’s meant to hit you where you’ll feel it.
So then why does my stomach pitch over at the look that falls over Remmy’s face?
It’s like a mixture of sadness and disbelief and…something else.
Dejection, maybe. A kind of gloom I wasn’t expecting.
Most of the time, people brush my words off. They fling them aside with the wave of a hand, as if I wasn’t intentionally trying to cut them off at the knees for whatever reason.
I’m quickly realizing, though, that Remmy doesn’t seem to be the same. Her reflexes at handling my irritability aren’t as well honed.
We watch each other for a beat, my own pride not allowing me to apologize for a comment that clearly hurt her feelings. I can’t apologize because I meant to say it. It wasn’t said in ignorance. It wasn’t said without care.
It was a targeted remark meant to do exactly what it has done: get her to stop talking.
