The Plight Before Christmas(76)

I glance at the bottle of whiskey that sits on a very expensive mahogany side table. When we first started dating, I was surprised to discover that Eli’s house was lavishly furnished—something I overlooked at the party. A house that, for the most part, remains spotless despite the fact he has three self-absorbed, fuckboy roommates who are nothing like him. But it’s to be expected. Eli needs order, routine, and he sticks with it no matter what. Even in the worst weather, he gets his ridiculously long runs in, studies a set number of hours every night, and has made it his personal mission to read a book a day.

He’s a far cry from all of the other guys I’ve dated, even though his inability to switch things up grates on me at times. Since we’ve been together, though, I have to admit his influence has rubbed off substantially. I can run two miles with him now without collapsing. I’m eating cleaner, and my grades are improving. I get more sleep and nurse a lot fewer hangovers—mostly due to his aversion to crowds and parties.

When I climb into his lap, he hesitates before pulling his legs from the ottoman to accommodate me, his posture tensing. He doesn’t bat me off, but he might as well have with the reception he’s giving me. It still surprises me how easily he can ice me out at times with as close as we’ve gotten. I’ve learned, though, that with Eli, patience is not only a virtue but greatly rewarded.

“I just want them to see how wonderful you are,” I eye the drink in his hand along with his scowl. “When you’re in a decent mood.”

“I’ll never understand why this is so fucking appealing,” he says absently, staring into the amber liquid.

“Then don’t do it.” I slide my hand around his neck, running my fingers through his feather-soft hair. “I would rather you not.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t really have a fucking say in that, do you?”

I rear back as he flicks his cold stone gaze to me.

Standing, I grab my flip-flops and start sliding into them. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but if you won’t talk to me about it, I can’t help.”

“So, you’re my problem solver, too?”

“You can be a real dick. You know that?”

“Are you planning on telling me how to hold it while I take a piss as well?”

I scrutinize him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play ignorant. It’s painfully clear you’re purposefully trying to push me away. If you want to end it, have the fucking balls to end it.” I shake my head, growing furious by the second. “Matter of fact, I take the invitation back. I just wanted to get you out of here, try to jostle you out of the shitty mood you’ve been in, and have a bit of fun.”

“I’m afraid our versions of fun are entirely different,” he delivers dryly.

“Oh,” I scoff. “I’m well aware.”

“You knew this about me,” he says icily, “don’t act so surprised.”

“No chance of surprise with you, is there?”

His eyes cut me, and I instantly regret my words.

“Eli—”

“Maybe I’m boring, Whitney. Maybe I’m just not the fun fucking guy, okay? So, do me a favor and stop painting me as the villain every time I turn down an invitation.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, taken aback by his easily delivered venom. “If you’re resenting me this much right now, maybe we should take a weekend apart because I really don’t like this color on you.”

Swallowing repeatedly, I gaze down at him, searching for any sign of the Eli I’ve fallen in love with as his jaw ticks.

“I’m going to go.”

He slams his tumbler onto the coffee table, the liquor swishing over the side. “Fuck that, come here.”

“No. I don’t think so.” I gather my purse. “It’s one thing to be in a bad mood, another entirely to treat me like it’s my fault and take it out on me. I won’t be a punching bag, Eli. No matter how much I care about you.”

“Come here, Whitney,” his voice is hoarse, a mix of frustration and melancholy.

“I’m going to Nashville. Give me a call when you manage to tuck Mr. Hyde away, and maybe I’ll answer. Have a good weekend, asshole.”

He stands abruptly, “Whitney—”

I shake my head and manage to keep my tears at bay but can’t keep the shake out of my voice. “I don’t know or want to know this version of you.”

“I’m done.”

“Okay,” Biting my lip to stifle a threatening sob, I turn toward the door.

“I mean, I’m done drinking. Not with you.”

“I’m not sure you mean that.”

He smacks the door closed with his palm as I open it and flicks my purse strap from my shoulder like it’s a nuisance while crowding me.

“Bee,” he says softly, turning me to face him, “don’t go.” The remorse in his tone has my heart aching as he presses his forehead to my shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I don’t want to weigh you down with my shit or hold you back from doing the things you want.”

“You haven’t, and I wouldn’t let you.”