Page 39 of Night Shift

Seventeen

Vincent doesn’t get frustrated. He doesn’t get angry or distant or weird. Even if he finds my request to talk a total mood killer, the measured step he takes back from me isn’t passive-aggressive or cruel. It’s patient. It gives me the space I need to march into the middle of his room and pace a few laps, sucking in deep breaths of cool air and trying to clear my head before I turn to face him again.

He leans against his desk and nods, giving me the floor.

“So.” I clear my throat. “I ran. On Monday.”

“I know. I was there.”

I huff and shoot him a warning look.

“I have stage fright, I guess. Not that I was handling everything great before that—”

“I was about to say,” he quips with a smile that’s more kind than it is teasing. “Look, I don’t blame you for leaving. I didn’t know the guys were going to come spy on me. My friends are idiots. I apologize on their behalf.”

“Don’t apologize yet,” I snap. “Can I at least make my points first?”

Vincent holds his arms wide open. “Apology rescinded. Give me your worst.”

I take a deep breath and fold my arms over my chest to steady myself.

“I don’t like that your friends knew where to find us. And I know I can’t ask you not to talk to them about this kind of stuff, because obviously I’ve told Harper and Nina everything—of course I did. And I’d be a hypocrite to be mad at you, but the fact that they came into Starbucks and sat there and watched us and probably took pictures to send to some sort of team group chat made me feel so—so—” I let out a strangled groan. “So attacked. Like, when girls talk about toxic masculinity and guys being gross with each other? It’s that. That feeling of being made fun of, being watched and harassed.”

The whole time I’m speaking, Vincent’s smile falls.

When I’m done, he swallows hard and says, “I’m sorry, Kendall. It wasn’t my intention—it wasn’t our intention. I promise. But intention doesn’t matter. I hurt you. And I’m sorry.”

I can tell this one’s not on behalf of his team. This apology is his. I bite back the impulse to say it’s okay, because it’s not. But I do nod—just so he knows that his apology is acknowledged.

“I also ran because I was . . . confused.”

“About what? Let’s talk it out.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Of course. I don’t want you to be confused about anything.”

It’s so not what I expected—and it’s so validating to be treated like my overactive emotions aren’t irrational or an annoyance.

“I told you already that I’m not good at this game,” I begin.

Vincent opens his mouth.

“I know.” I cut him off. “I know you said it’s not a game. But that’s the only way I can describe what it feels like. And it feels like I missed something, or nobody gave me the rule book, and maybe I’m just not very smart, but—”

“You’re smart,” Vincent interrupts sharply. “Ask me something. Anything.”

I chew on my lip and search his face for any hint of humor. There’s none. He’s dead serious.

“When you left the note at the library,” I begin, my voice wobbling just a little, “was that code for, like, wanting to go on a coffee date? Or hook up? Or was it really just for tutoring? Or—I don’t know. I didn’t want to read too much into it.”

I wring my hands, willing my heartbeat to calm the fuck down and stop acting like I’m standing on the edge of a roof twenty stories up from a busy street. So overdramatic.

Vincent frowns. “Which note are we talking about?”

“The note.”

“No, I mean—the first one or the second one?”

---