Page 64 of Night Shift

Vincent is, understandably, bewildered. “Did I what?”

“It’s a yes-or-no question. On your birthday. After—everything. I really don’t think you did, but I need to ask, even if it’s completely idiotic, because I’m trying to prove something to myself. So. Did you take my underwear?”

He slowly blinks at me.

And then he asks, “Why the fuck would I take your underwear?”

There it is. The simple absurdity of my fear, laid out in plain English. I know that a question in response to a question can be a deflection tactic, but this doesn’t feel like that kind of a situation. This feels like Vincent has no fucking clue why the girl who told him to fuck off on his birthday is at the bookstore, dripping wet and bearing flowers, asking him if he stole her underpants.

Because it’s silly. I’m silly—and I’ve read the whole situation wrong.

“Well, that answers that,” I say with a weak laugh.

Vincent’s still frowning. “Hold on. You thought I took your underwear?”

I laugh again, because the truth is far worse.

“I thought it was a bet,” I admit.

“What? Me stealing your underwear?”

“No—me. Us. The whole thing.” I gesture sweepingly with the sunflowers. The newspaper they’re wrapped in rustles violently. “When I saw all your teammates watching us when you asked me to the bar, I assumed there was some kind of big team joke about us hooking up, and you were just going to parade me or my missing underwear around like some kind of trophy. So, I ran.”

“You thought . . .” Vincent’s face twists like I’ve hit him. “That’s—”

“Gross! I know. But I was scared, and I assumed the worst of you, and you didn’t deserve it. So, this is me trying to tell you that I’m sorry.”

I hold the flowers out again. But Vincent doesn’t move to accept them. He’s staring at me, something like horror written across his face, and then his expression sinks into something much worse. Hurt. He’s hurt that I’d think so little of him. And when he exhales a little scoff and shakes his head, I feel it like a punch to the stomach. He’s not laughing. I really wish he would laugh. Because if we can’t laugh about this—if he can’t forgive me for this—then I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

“But I realize, now, that I was wrong,” I barrel on. “Because you’re a good person.” My throat gets tight when I look at him. I swallow and push through it. “You’re so good, Vincent.”

His face scrunches.

“Not good enough, though, huh?”

He says it like it’s meant to be some kind of barbed joke, but we both wince when it lands with unexpected vulnerability. There’s a tiny crack in Vincent’s walls, and some of the hurt has managed to trickle through.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” I ask softly.

Vincent shifts his weight back and forth between his feet, visibly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is taking. I watch him fidget. He realizes I’m watching and tugs his hands out of his pockets to shake them out and scrub his hair back, leaving it even wilder and messier than before.

“Look, Kendall, we’re good,” he says, even though we are very much not good. “You don’t have to nurse my wounded ego or whatever. I’m fine. I’m a big boy. I can handle a little bit of rejection.”

He smiles, then, and there’s some honesty in it. He’s not saying this all for sympathy. He’s genuinely convinced I’m here for some kind of closure, and he’s willing to give it.

Unbelievable.

He really doesn’t get it.

“You are . . .” I trail off, shaking my head. “You’re so fucking handsome.”

Vincent barks out a laugh, and it’s half startled and half bitter. I take another step toward him and press on without a shred of humor.

“And you’re better at interpreting poetry than you give yourself credit for.”

“Thanks, Holiday,” he says coolly.

One more step. “And you’ve been playing basketball since elementary school, so you’re disciplined and you appreciate the value of hard work. You’ve been team captain, so you’re good with leadership and responsibility. And you’re going to graduate magna cum laude.”

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