Page 70 of The Way I Hate Him
It’s not cuddling, but fuck, it’s pretty damn close.
I press my lips tightly together as I stare up at the stars, the feel of her pressing into me creating a surprising inner turmoil. I like her. I’ll admit it, I like Hattie Rowley when I know damn well I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have invited her over this weekend. I shouldn’t have offered her my sweatshirt just now, and I shouldn’t allow her to lean into me like this. But hell if I’m going to stop her because if I’m honest, I was hoping something like this would happen.
I was hoping I could grow closer to her. I was hoping I could experience something more with her. Like when we made cookies, I felt something new...something exciting.
She sparked some light into my life.
But like Abel said . . . she’s off limits.
So fucking off limits that what we’re doing right now should be stopped, but when her head drops against my shoulder, for the life of me, I can’t ask her to move.
I want her to move in closer.
I want her to stay here, staring into the fire with me until the early morning starts to rise.
“The stars are beautiful out here with the mountains as a dark backdrop underneath them,” she says quietly. “Living in a city for so long, you forget to appreciate the little things like the stars.”
“But the stars are the one thing that keeps us locked into home,” I say.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“No matter where you are in the world, you can always depend on the stars to keep you grounded, to remind you that you might be away from home, but you’re still connected under the umbrella of the sky.”
She sinks deeper into me as she says, “Did you look up at the stars while on tour?”
“Not at first,” I answer softly. “I was too concerned with leaving. But even though I have a love-hate relationship with this town, there were times I felt . . . lost while on tour. The stars grounded me, gave me peace. I’d ask to be driven out to the country, and I’d hoist myself onto the roof of the car and stare up at the sky. Some of my most peaceful moments were spent there.”
“Cassidy and I used to count the stars together. We’d spend many nights during the summer out on a blanket in the middle of the potatoes before she had Mac, counting and naming them. I haven’t looked up at them since she passed.”
“Naming?”
She nods against me. “We’d group them together and name them after things like . . . old rock bands, or vegetables, or TV stars. There was one time we both named the same star Jim Parsons and ended up laughing for five minutes straight with tears streaming down our cheeks.”
I don’t know what to say or how to respond that wouldn’t make it seem hollow compared to what she just shared. I always strive for less is more, so I move my arm that’s braced over the back of the bench to across her shoulders and tug her in closer.
She gently approves with a sigh.
After what seems like ten minutes, she quickly asks, “What did you do to Ryland?”
“I think that’s something you should talk to your brother about,” I answer. “Because there’s his truth, and then there’s mine.”
“Well, let me hear your truth,” she says.
“I don’t want it to skew your brother’s truth. You deserve to hear it from him and be on his side of the story, not mine.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
I sigh. “Hattie, if I tell you my side first, you’re more likely to favor my story over your brother’s, and even though things are strained between him and me, I’m not about to take the loyalty of his sister. So if you want to know, ask Ryland.”
She shakes her head. “Just your response to that makes me want to believe you more.”
“Don’t,” I say. “It won’t be good for you.”
She turns her head ever so slightly, her eyes matching up with mine, the light of the fire bouncing off her cheek. Quietly, she says, “Maybe it will be.”
Jesus.
Those fucking eyes of hers. Soulful, but also so fucking naive at the same time.
