Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(47)

You get the picture.

Generally, people who meet me assume I’m a bitch right off the bat, without me ever saying boo to them. This used to bother me. For a while, I thought it was my duty to prove them wrong. To be so sweet and so uncalculating, they’d have no choice but to change their opinion about me.

This phase, as you can probably guess, did not last long.

Because, eventually, I realized it really didn’t matter. Regardless of how hard I worked to change their minds, it’s been my experience that on the whole, people pretty much see exactly what they want to see: cherry-picking new evidence to suit an existing hypothesis, bolstering their belief systems with what fits and discarding the rest. The technical name for this is confirmation bias and, as much as it sucks, most people aren’t even aware they’re doing it, let alone ready and willing to stop.

Hey, don’t blame the messenger. I think it would be sweet if we could all sing kumbaya and accept each other for who we really are. It’s just never in a million years going to happen.

I realized this way back in first grade, when Miss Wilbur announced in front of the entire class that “your redhead’s temper won’t do you any favors in this life, young lady!” after I questioned why the boys got to play soccer at recess while we girls were stuck with sidewalk chalk and boring four-square. At six, I knew that it didn’t really matter how sweetly I phrased my questions or how downcast I kept my gaze. In Miss Wilbur’s eyes, I was already a feisty hothead, simply due to the shade of my hair.

She wasn’t the only one to make this assumption; just the first in a long line. From day one, it seemed like the world wanted me to be a bitch… and that’s exactly what they saw. Whether or not I actually was one held very little bearing on the matter.

So… I decided to embrace her.

The bitch.

The cool girl.

The aloof heiress.

The untouchable queen bee.

It didn’t bother me. The world’s a stage; it seemed as good a role as any. And I was great at playing along.

I played so long, I forgot it was an act.

I danced till dawn. I laughed off my heartbreaks. I gave no fucks. I broke my own rules, and everybody else’s while I was at it. I discontinued my verbal filter and started speaking my mind. And, most importantly, I never, ever, ever let down my guard, even when I was so lonely I thought I might disappear into thin air one day without anyone close enough to notice.

Because bitches, above all, are experts at controlling their emotions.

We aren’t whiny. We’re not open books. We don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves to encourage open, honest communication. We’re certainly not cry-babies.

And yet, here I stand.

A weepy cow — eyes leaking, throat clogged, trembling from the crown of my head to my pedicured toes in Luca’s arms, as my hands curl into fists around the fabric of his shirt. I shake and shiver and sob, unable to stop. And he holds me steady, a safe harbor in the hurricane, a storm cellar keeping me clear of a deadly tornado. Making sure I don’t pull apart into a million pieces at the mercy of the winds.

He doesn’t have to say anything. It’s enough to stand there stoically, stroking my hair in long soothing motions. In silence, he lends me his strength for the moments when mine has fled entirely.

It’s a long while before I finally hiccup myself into a semi-composed state. Pulling in a shaky breath, I step out of his arms and clear my throat.

“I’m— I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, babe.”

I laugh miserably. “Thought you were a straight shooter, Buchanan? No need to lie to me. I know I’m a mess. I know I owe you a hell of an apology. God, you came here to help, and I yelled at you…” I trail off, humiliated all over again.

He ducks down so I’m forced to meet his eyes. “Never lied to you before. Don’t plan on starting now. I mean it when I tell you you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Pretty clear to me that you let this build up inside you for so long, it was bound to explode. Happy you finally let it out. Even happier I was the one with you when you did.”

I blink rapidly, afraid his kind words will set me off again. “Still… I feel terrible. You didn’t deserve any of this. All those things I said…”

“I know your brother screwed you over. Know that hurts, babe. Can see the hurt in your eyes every time I look at you.”

I wince and glance away, embarrassed.

His hand finds my chin and he slowly turns my face back to his. There’s no escaping his gaze, not when he’s this close to me.

“Delilah. Something you should know about me by now — but you’ve had a rough day so I’ll cut you some slack and fill you in.”

“What’s that?” I whisper.

“I can take it.”

My brows lift in confusion.

“Whatever you wanna throw at me, whatever you need to work out of your system… If you wanna scream or cry or hurl things at a moving target… I can take it. I’m strong enough for anything you got to give, so bring it on. Whatever you need to do to make that anxious blade cutting through you a little less sharp. I’m here for you. I can handle it.”

Shit shit shit shit shit.

His words weave a web of warmth around my heart, and I’m overcome by the craziest urge to pop up onto my tiptoes, to crush my mouth to his and show him, unequivocally, just how much I appreciate that offer, even if it’s one I’ll never take him up on.