Page 95 of The Way I Hate Him
But if this morning proved anything, it’s best I didn’t take it any further.
So when she showed up, quiet and subdued, I assumed it was because of me. But what’s strange is that knowing I’m not the one who brought on the tears, I now want to know who did this to her.
Who made her hurt?
I want to take care of her, take that pain away. Knowing her situation with her family, that’s my one guess.
Which means . . . fuck, did Ryland say something to her about me? Shit, maybe this really is my fault.
Did he warn her? Did he question her? Does he know?
Did they have a falling out?
Nerves creep up my neck, making my mind uneasy as I navigate the situation.
I started this entire interaction with her based on my need to control the people around me. I had no clue she’d take over my mind. That every second of the day, I’d be thinking about her.
And with every second I spend with her, I regret blackmailing her to work for me because, yeah, I might have been lonely, I might have needed the help—shesure as hell needed the help—but now, now I could have truly fucked her over.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me?
And then practically forcing her to come with me to San Francisco? Technically, I don’t need her there. The production company would have enough people on set to help me out . . . but I wanted her there. Ask me to explain that, and I can’t.
I don’t want to like her.
I don’t want to touch her.
I don’t want to get involved.
Yet I like seeing her . . . I need to see her.
I want her involved.
I want to hold her hand because she’s sad, and I want to make her feel better.
I don’t . . . fuck, I don’t want to be lonely. Her silence today has been painful. I know she was mad from last night, but I still thought that maybe . . . she’d at least shake it off as a drunk thing and move on.
She moved on, all right, but she left me in the dust.
And it stung.
I didn’t like one second of it.
So seeing her upset now has created a protective instinct within me. And I felt like I could do nothing but reach over the center console and hold her hand.
And that’s how it’s been for the past half hour—holding her hand and listening to music.
“Are you okay with the music?” I ask her.
“Yeah, I love it,” she says softly. Thankfully the tears are gone now. “I didn’t know you listened to Aerosmith. WhenDream Onstarted playing, I was surprised.”
“Love Aerosmith,” I say. “I know my music is different from theirs, but if I ever did the rock thing, I’d want to be in a band like Aerosmith.”
“Interesting,” she says, her voice becoming lighter, not so distressed anymore, which puts me slightly at ease. “Is there a song you wish you wrote?”
“Yeah,” I say as I keep my hand clasped around hers, glad she’s talking. Talking and not fighting with me...because I feel like that’s what we do, nonstop. “More than a Feelingby Boston. It’s probably my favorite song ever. The premise of how a song can connect you to someone, past and present, is truly what music is all about. I often do a cover of it during my concerts. I have a rotation of a few, and that’s one of them.”
“I’ve seen it,” she says softly.
