Page 76 of Wrong For Me

She snorts. “Oh my God, are you afraid I’m going to hurt your comic book’sfeelings?”

I make an executive decision that this conversation has gone on long enough and reach over to turn off the light. As the room is engulfed in darkness, Rose erupts into giggles. “You’re such a baby!”

“Man, it sure would be nice if it were quiet in here,” I say in a carrying voice, which only causes Rose to laugh harder. I find I don’t mind in the slightest. It’s kind of nice, to lay here and listen to her soft giggles dancing through the darkness.

So nice that when her laughter eventually fades away, I feel compelled to keep her talking.

“I take it those were your cousins?” I ask. “On the video call?”

“And my siblings, yeah.”

I shake my head in the dark. “I don’t know how you even kept any of that straight. It sounded like a hundred people.”

She laughs softly. “Sometimes it feels like a hundred people when we’re together.”

“You got quiet,” Rose murmurs into the darkness after a moment.

“Sorry. Just thinking how different that is from the way I grew up.” Wanting to distract her from that line of questioning, I turn the conversation back to her.

“Tell me about them. Your family. You’re obviously close.”

I hear the soft, crinkling sounds of her sheets as she shifts in the bed and my stomach clenches, imagining her laying there, so close in the darkness. I could easily reach across the space between our beds and touch her.

“They mean the world to me,” she murmurs.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Four younger siblings.”

There’s a beat of silence and I find myself wishing she would keep talking. There’s something incredibly soothing about laying here with the sound of her soft, musical voice floating around in the dark room.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” I ask.

“Three brothers and a sister. River is a couple years younger than me. Then Fox, he’s nineteen. And the twins, Violet and Ash, they’re thirteen.” It’s strange the way I can hear the smile in her voice in the darkness. “And yes, we do all have hippy-dippy names.”

I laugh. “You said it, not me.”

“The girls all have flower names because my mom and grandmother both did.”

“And your brother’s names?” I press. I’m probably being so embarrassingly obvious right now, so clearly desperate to keep her talking.

Her voice is softer when she continues. “We have a house in Tennessee.” She mentioned that, the night we ate pizza and looked at the stars. “It’s…it’s my parents’ favorite place in the world. A refuge, I guess. They gave the boys nature names, things that remind them of the farm, so that it always feels like we have a little of that peace wherever we go together.”

This time it’s my heart that clenches. Everything she’s saying is so foreign to me. And not just because her family has fame and tons of money. It’s the way she describes their relationships that I can’t for the life of me relate to. I can’t imagine drawing anything like peace from the presence of my family. Or to have that many people looking out for me. Pretty much the only person in my life who gives a shit if they see me or not is Bodhi.

“You’re lucky, Rose,” I murmur.

“I am,” she says, conviction ringing in her voice. “There might be things I would change about my life, but family has never been one of them.”

I want to ask her what it is she would change. Want to know what aspects of her life she finds less than pleasing. Want her to tell me all about her hurts and plans and desires. I want too much with her, and I know this obsession I can’t seem to shake is going to hurt me even worse than it already has.

Would I be one of the things she would change? Our hook-up in Lake Tahoe? Or what happened after, sending the lawyer to my apartment with money and an NDA—would she change that, if she could? Does she regret it at all?

You need to get your shit together,I remind myself. This girl does not want me. And even if she did, that’s not where my focus should be. I’m here to make a good impression and hopefully increase my chances at the Williamson Fellowship. That’s it.

“I really am getting tired,” I say, even though I’m sure there’s no way I’ll be sleeping any time soon—not with her so close by. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” she whispers. “And Leo—thanks.”

“For what?”

I hear her shift in the bed again, and I wonder if she’s turned to face me. I want to do the same, to try and peer into the darkness to see if I can make her out. Hell, I want to climb into her bed and pull her close to me.

“For asking about my family,” she clarifies. “I was feeling a little homesick. Talking about them helped.”

Part of me—the asshole part that can’t seem to stop lashing out in a vain attempt to protect myself—wants to make a snide comment. She’s been gone for less than twenty-four hours. How in the hell could she be homesick already? But there’s vulnerability in her voice, an openness that makes me want to be more like her. Makes me want to be different.

So, for once in my life I don’t do the asshole thing. I don’t lash out or say something snarky or laugh at her. Instead I just sigh into the darkness, wishing things were different. “You’re welcome, Rose. Goodnight.”