Deeper (Caroline & West #1)(79)

“Caro—”

“No. I’m talking now. You can f*cking wait. I have been patient with you, but my patience is gone, West. You don’t get to barge into the line at the rugby thing and kiss me in front of everyone—in front of everyone, when you dumped me, when you’ve refused to admit we have something even to our friends for months now—and then walk away, like you’ve said your piece and that’s that. You don’t get to pick me up and throw me over your shoulder and drag me into your room like I don’t have a say in it. And put a condom in your pocket because, what? What if you feel like f*cking me later? Might as well be prepared? No. You don’t get to do that. You want to be friends? We could have been friends. You want to be f*ck buddies, you know, I was up for that! Probably I would’ve gotten too attached, gotten my heart broken, if we’re being honest, but so what? I wouldn’t be the first girl in the history of the world to let that happen to her. But you’re the one who said to let you know when I’m ready to see other guys, and you’re the one who dropped me after break like nothing we said or did on the phone mattered, so don’t pretend you have any right at all to play the jealous boyfriend when you’re not my f*cking boyfriend.”

I’m poking him in the chest now, and it’s possible that I’m crying, but we’re not going to examine that too closely, because I need to do this. It feels like such a relief to get it out, to accuse him, to beat on him with these words I’ve been holding inside me for far too long.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You should be sorry. You’ve been a jerk to me, and I just take it. I let you. But I’m not letting you anymore. You want to be with me, make up your f*cking mind.”

He catches my face in his palms. I can’t even hear over the rush of blood in my ears, my pounding heart, my fury. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I said my piece. I should go, but he’s trapped me here between his hands, his eyes on me, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Everything I said is true, and I still want to be right here.

“You’re the coward.” My voice is hoarse. Low. Shocked, because I’m only now figuring this out.

“I know.”

“And a liar.”

“I know.”

“You’re playing with me.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m not—I don’t mean to. I just can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

Another shake, and our noses bump and slide past each other. He’s not kissing me. He’s just right up against me, rubbing his cheek into mine. Scratching his stubble over my chin. I need you. That’s what he’s trying to tell me. I want you.

I need him, too. Want him, too. But it’s not fair of him to give me this and nothing else. It’s not enough.

“I can’t,” he repeats.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I don’t sound so harsh anymore. I sound gentle. I feel gentle, because, God, I care about him, even though it’s wrong and dumb. He’s hurting, and I care. “I can’t know, because you don’t tell me anything.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Now I push his hands off me and grab his head, the way he did mine. I want him to see me. I want him to hear, to understand. I sink my fingers into his hair, hold him there. Make him listen. “You could tell me,” I say. “There isn’t anything you couldn’t tell me. God, anything—you know I’m on your side. And if you just told me …” I trail off, thinking what that would be like.

I should keep silent, but there’s too much alcohol in me, too much openness not to say all of this.

I look in his eyes.

“If you just told me, then we could get into that bed and crawl under the covers. We could take everything off, and we could really be together. Deep and then deeper, just like you said. You know how it would be, West. We both know.”

“Incredible,” he says.

I dip my thumb down, run it over the arch of his eyebrow. “Yeah. Incredible.”

I put my arms around him, gather him close, tuck my head against his neck, because I think he needs this. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in Iowa who’s ever hugged him, and in Oregon, who knows? Maybe no one hugs him but me.

I hold him tight, and he’s shaking. Actually shaking.

I feel sorry for him. That’s a new thing. I think this is the first time since I met him that I didn’t feel like West had all the power, held all the cards. The first time I’ve ever believed he’s maybe even more screwed up than I am.

I kiss his jaw. I stroke his back one more time, because it’s broad and warm and strong, and the truth is I can’t help it. I never could.

But after all that, I let go. Take a step back. Meet his eyes and lift my chin.

“It’s deeper or nothing,” I tell him. “So make up your mind.”

This time, I’m the one who walks away.





FEBRUARY

West




January ended. February came.

I quit selling weed and got rid of my stash. Without Caroline around, the bakery was dead. I worked hard, studied while the bread rose, listened to the buzzing fluorescents.

It was boring. Boring and miserable.