Page 107 of Worth the Risk

It’s my turn to move. To pace. To abate every ounce of anger I have vibrating within.

“This is my life, Sidney.” He throws his arms out to his sides and matches me shout for shout. “Luke gets sick. I have to cancel things. Luke’s needs aren’t always first, but they are a lot of the goddamn time. Can you handle that? Can you handle being second place in your first-class world?”

I stare at him. He’s so fucking gorgeous I don’t want to look away, yet the sight of him makes me want to scream and yell and tell him to go to hell.

“Screw you.”

“Apparently, that’s the one thing we’re good at.” His nonchalance only serves to enrage me. The way he just cast aside, with those few words, how close we’ve become hurts more than expected.

“What the fuck is this, Grayson? What are we doing here? Because I can’t figure you out. One minute, you want me, and the next minute, you don’t. One minute, you’re lying to me, and the next minute, you’re giving me some kind of fucked-up test to see if I’m good enough to be a part of your life. Is this just sex? Is this more? Because you send so many goddamn mixed signals that I don’t know which way is up anymore. Do me a favor and make up your mind and quit playing with mine.” I fight the tears that threaten as he stares, the muscle in his jaw pulsing and tension radiating off him.

“Sid . . .”

“I’m fighting for you, Grayson. Is that what you want? I’m fighting for you when she wouldn’t, but I sure as hell won’t compete against your ghosts.”

“I’ve never asked you for anything.”

I feel like every part of my body has been wrapped as tightly as possible in barbed wire. Like I’m suffocating although I’m in the open air.

Fuck you.

I hate you.

Screw you.

I don’t say any of those things because as much as I tell myself that I don’t care, that this is just a fling like he says, I know I feel more from him. I know there is more between us than this.

I love you.

Oh. God.

“We never talked parameters, Sid. All I can offer you is fun and done. I never promised you more.”

“I never asked for more,” I whisper to save face when every part of me is reeling from those three words that never grace my lips.

“Good,” he says and turns back to the cushions on the damn chairs as if we didn’t just close the door on whatever this was between us.

“Good.”

Without another word, I turn on my heel, walk inside, pull the brownies from the bag on the counter, and leave.

Go.

Wait.

Fuck this.

When she slams the door, it reverberates in so many more places than just the house. It’s in every part of me.

Christ.

I scrub a hand through my hair and tell myself to go after her, a split second before I tell myself not to.

That I should just leave things be.

I made my point. To myself. To her.

And now, guess who feels fucking miserable? Guess who feels like a fucking asshole? Guess who just messed up the best thing he had going for him in the longest of times and doesn’t know how to fix it.