Page 112 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I blink hard, not trusting myself to answer.
“What about your dad?” he asks gently.
“He checked out a long time ago,” I whisper. “He hides behind his work and lets my mom call the shots. When I’d cry in my room, he’d say she just wanted the best for me. That I’d thank her someday. I’m still waiting for that day.”
For a while, neither of us speaks. His hand finds mine and rubs gentle circles into the back of it with his thumb. After the silence stretches for a good long while, I ask, “What about you? What was your childhood like?”
Hunter shifts, eyes on the flickering TV. I’m not sure he even heard me.
“Lonely,” he says finally. “After my dad died, it felt like the house went quiet. Everyone was grieving in their own way. My mom… she couldn’t look at us without seeing him. So she looked away. A lot.”
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I whisper. “Being lonely when you’re a kid is the absolute worst.”
He shrugs. “I had my brothers, but they were just kids too. Hockey was the only place that made sense. The rink was loud, physical, and you could understand the rules. Out there, you either scored or you didn’t. You won or you didn’t. It was the one place I felt like I had control again.”
“Ah. So you dedicated your life to it.”
Huxley looks over at me. “Yeah. I guess I haven’t really thought about it that way, but I like to be in control. Everything feels better when I’m the one pulling the strings.”
I study the hard lines of his face. There’s no self-pity in his voice, only fact. But underneath it, I hear the boy who lost his dad too young and had to build armor to survive.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Can I… give you a hug?”
He shrugs, but his eyes flick to mine. “I would never turn down a hug from you.”
I scoot over, slipping my arms around his waist and burying my nose in his t-shirt, hugging him and inhaling his woodsy scent. His smell and the feel of his colossal body pressed against me do something complicated to my brain chemistry. My mouth waters, my skin feels hot, but my mind tries to relax.
This man is turning me into a fucking turnip and I’m trying to get closer. At this moment, if I could crawl inside his chest, I would. He seems to feel similarly because he presses his nose into the crown of my head and breathes me in.
So we’re both a little weird, I guess.
We just sit here, watching Swedish Detective Saga piece together clues in her methodical way, pretending we’re not both hyperaware of every place our bodies are touching.
But I can feel something has changed between us. We crossed some line we can’t uncross. And as much as that terrifies me, there’s a part of me that’s relieved.
Because pretending not to want him was exhausting. Pretending this was all just fake was becoming impossible.
Now I just have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about it.
Chapter25
Hunter
Iwake up early to find Juliet still curled against me on the couch. Her face is soft in the morning light filtering through the windows. We fell asleep watching that Swedish show, tangled together like we’ve been doing this for years instead of just pretending for a few months.
She looks smaller when she’s sleeping and vulnerable in a way she never lets herself be when she’s awake. Her red lipstick is mostly gone, smeared somewhere between the couch cushions and my mouth. Without it, she looks younger. More real.
I should wake her up. Untangle myself and go make coffee and pretend last night was just another step in our fake relationship playbook. Instead, I carefully lift her into my arms.
She stirs slightly as I carry her to my bedroom, making this soft sound that goes straight through me. But she doesn’t wake up, just settles deeper into my chest like she belongs there.
I tell myself it’s just the setup. Just two people playing pretend, maintaining the illusion in case anyone checks our social media or asks invasive questions about our living situation. But then I see her curled up in my bed, wearing my old hoodie she must have grabbed at some point, her mouth parted slightly.
And I feel something I don’t have a name for. Something I don’t want to feel.
Because if I let this become real, if I let myself actually want her, I know I’ll screw it up. I always do. I’m amazing at hockey and I suck at everything else, especially for people who matter. And this time, I wouldn’t just lose her. I’druinher.
She wakes up an hour later, blinking slowly in the dim light of my bedroom. For a second, she looks confused, like she’s trying to remember how she got here. Then her eyes find mine, and something shifts in her expression.
