Page 76 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“Why did you have to sneak up on me?” I don’t know why I’m whispering. “I thought you were Scar—” I stop myself, but he’s already heard.
“Scarlett?” His smile is sharp in the darkness, like the gleam of a knife. “I’m flattered you found my storytelling skills so convincing. If you’re afraid, you can tell me.”
“I’m not.” I am. Scared breathless. Terrified. But I can hardly admit that it’s him I’m scared of now. Being alone with him. Being in this position. I try to wriggle free, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“Promise me you won’t hit me again,” he says.
“Julius—oh my god, just let me—”
“Promise,” he insists, his voice pressed close to my ear, the heat of his breath fanning my skin. Goose bumps spread over my body.
I manage a nod, and he releases me at once but doesn’t step back.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
My pulse skips.Hope.Foolish, irrational hope takes root inside me. But I wipe my voice clean of it, because there are countless directions this conversation could go. He could be here to talk to me about the math test next week. About weather patterns. About how pretty Rosie is. About how they’ve run out of buckets. If it’s not what I so desperately want it to be, at least I can save myself the embarrassment of anticipating anything. “Why?”
He huffs out a laugh. “You’re too smart to act this slow. You know why. We both do.”
“What, are you going to accuse me of pitying you? Of being too nice?” I ask. It’s a challenge. This is what we do, I realize. We talk in circles. We give each other riddles, confounding clues, half answers. Everything and anything but the truth.
“No— No, I’m sorry for that,” he says quickly. Swallows. He’s never sounded so nervous, so unsure of himself, and I find my anger bleeding out of me. “I didn’t mean to say those things. I shouldn’t have assumed . . . There were only two possible explanations for why you were acting the way you were, and the other seemed too unlikely. And I was—scared.”
“Scared?” The last of my frustration vanishes like smoke in a breeze. It’s almost funny; nobody else infuriates me like he does, but nobody else makes it this difficult to stay mad. “Of what?”
“Losing,” he whispers.
I stare.
“You have to understand . . . If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you . . . I wouldn’t stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me,” he goes on in a rush, like the words are burning him from within, like he has to get it out before the pain becomes overwhelming. “Not just a debating championship or some points for a test or a fancy award or a spot in a competition—but my whole heart. My pride. God, mysanity. It would be all over. You would annihilate me.”
I keep staring. I’m afraid to so much as blink, to breathe, afraid it’ll shatter whatever wild fantasy or lucid dream this is. He can’t possibly be saying these things to me.Aboutme.
“I mean, nothing has even really happened between us,” he says hoarsely, “and already it’s hard for me to concentrate whenever you’re around. My brother was right, in a sense, about you being a distraction, except you’re so much more than that. I can’t pretend to care about the things that once interested me. I can’t fall asleep. I play through every look you’ve ever cast in my direction. I read through your emails over and over until they’re carved into my memory. You did this to me,” he says, and there’s a rough, bitter edge to his voice now, nearly an accusation.
My knees buckle. It’s too much to absorb. I feel myself slide down against the wall, sink onto the floor.
“You had to write those awful emails,” he continues, lowering himself down next to me. Except he’s kneeling, and he’s still too close. I’m convinced he can hear my heart thrumming. “You had to kiss me, then kick me, then fill my head with your voice. You made it clear—so terribly clear—how much you hate me. That I’m the last person in the world you would ever consider. But I kept looking for signs that would suggest otherwise. I kept wondering if it was still possible. Because I’m willing to lose everything,” he says, his eyes blacker than the surrounding darkness, than the sky outside, “so long as I don’t lose you.”
I’m stunned.
It can’t be a fantasy—I’m certain of that now. My own imagination couldn’t conjure something like this.
“Of course, if you . . . if you don’t want to,” he says into the silence, sliding his gaze away from me, “I can accept that. I won’t bring it up again. I know I’m not . . . I know what I’m like. That I’m infuriating. And selfish. And cruel. I know I’m not perfect the way my brother is, and I manage to disappoint my parents every time. It’s okay if you don’t choose me, really—I never expected to be the first choice. I wouldn’t blame you—”
“I do choose you.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me at first. He’s still talking, rambling really, the words flowing out like rainwater. “I can’t always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and— Wait.” He stops. Even his breath freezes in his throat. “What . . . did you just say? Say it again.”
“I choose you,” I say quietly, glad for the shadows concealing my flushed cheeks. For the support of the wall behind me. “You’ll always be my first choice, Julius Gong.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His eyes widen, and he leans in, lips parted, his fingers trembling like moth wings over my cheeks. It’s clear what he wants, and I almost let him. But I’m not going to make itthateasy.
I twist my head away. “I recall you saying you would rather die than kiss me again.”
