Page 178 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Is that better?”
I nod. “Yes. Plus a bonus infection for you.”
He chuckles. “I’ll live.”
I trail my arms through the water. “That’s what you keep saying.”
Like his life is just a continuous moment of surviving and not living. Of course, I don’t say that.
We float in the silence for a minute, water lapping at our shoulders.
“I’m sorry.” He catches a leaf floating between us and turns it slowly in his fingers.
I don’t say anything. Mostly because I don’t know what he’s sorry for, or if he even knows how long his list of apologies has gotten.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did.” His words skim the surface between us. “About doing the bucket list with someone else. I wouldn’t. Not ever.”
I rub my lips together, tasting the stale, metallic flavor of the water. “Who you’re with isn’t my business. Just like who I am with isn’t yours.”
“You’re right.”
“I am.”
His shoulders slump like he’s too tired to keep them upright. “I owe you an apology for last night, too. I was an asshole. I crossed a line. You don’t owe me anything, and it’s not my place to ask.”
“Or accuse.” I’m not going to let him get off easy.
“Can we blame it on the booze?”
I shake my head.
He chuckles, and a ripple of water slips into his mouth, and he lets it trickle out. “You ever get tired of this?” His voice carries over the water, low and rough, as if the words scrape on their way out.
I narrow my eyes. “Of swimming? Because you’re the one who dragged me in.”
A flash of teeth, not quite a smile. “No. Of us. The fighting. Doesn’t it ever feel like too much?”
My heart jerks.
He’s not supposed to say things like this.
He’s supposed to keep throwing barbs.
The answer is always. Every single second we’re together. Because all I want is the man who used his T-shirt to wipe the foam from my face. The one whose gentle hand cupped the back of my neck and drew me close to him with such care.
But I know that man was never meant for me.
“Why? You running out of insults?” My tone comes out sharper than I intend.
I’m good at fighting with him—hating him.
That’s safe.
He’s moving closer, whether on purpose or not. I kick back, but the water isn’t enough of a shield. His gaze pins me harder than his hands ever could.
“I’m running out of energy.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “Lately, it just feels like I’m drowning in the hate between us.”
His words hit me deep because I’m tired in the same way.
