Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(44)

But, I remind myself, that’s all it is: cultural programming. It’s the effect of too many animated movies watched at too young an age. It isn’t real.

In fiction, the story ends when Prince Charming whisks Cinderella away to his castle.

But there’s a reason why the poor girl who wins herself a prince is usually an orphan. Because if she wasn’t…

“Darling,” Charming would say in the scene after the end, “you know I love you, doll. But we have to talk about your parents. I’m thinking I should buy them a cottage, maybe something high up in the mountains, yeah? Don’t worry. You can always call. You can even visit them when I’m busy with my affairs of state.”

Even with Cinderella’s essentially family-less status, the story always ends before the painful, embarrassing scenes that come a few years in.

“Darling, I never meant to fall in love with Snow White. I swear it. But she was raised in a castle as a princess, you know? She gets me in a way you never will.”

Blake interrupts my reverie with a note.

There’s something you should know, he writes. You do mean something to me.

I crumple the paper and turn my attention back to my notebook. At least I try to. But no matter how much I stare at the professor, I can scarcely pay attention to what he’s saying.

There’s a reason the hero is always called Prince Charming in all the stories. It’s not just an interchangeable name. It’s the same damned knight on a white horse, looking for a girl who’s grateful to be rescued. Once he’s managed the deed—and once she’s forgotten what she has to be grateful about, and started to realize that this is the rest of her life—there’s nothing left but regret. Snow White will have decades to remember that at least the seven dwarves said “thank you,” goddammit. And then there was that nice woodcutter boy who worshipped her. He never would have looked down on her, not once.

My life means something to me. I’ve been on this track for years. I’m not about to mess it all up just because a man is good at kissing.

Beside me, Blake lets out a sigh.

I don’t look in his direction. I can’t. I’m afraid he’ll break me down. If I meet his eyes, I’ll remember that I like him, and once I remember that…

God. If it’s like this between us when we’re not together, how much more will it hurt if I let it happen?

He starts to write again.

I’m trying to block out my awareness of him. Really. I’m trying. I’m trying not to wonder. I’m trying to ignore that tight coil of nervous anticipation that is building. I’m telling myself that whatever he says, whatever he thinks, it’s not going to change my mind. There’s nothing he can offer me in the long term—just a chance to feel ashamed of who I am and where I come from.

I have to hold onto that. I have to hold onto myself or I’ll lose everything.

Still, I read the second note when he slides it over.

I’ve been Blake f*cking Reynolds since I was two years old. I’ve never had a chance to be anyone else. I don’t know if you understand why I find you so f*cking hot. It’s because you know who you are, where you’re going. You have a plan and nobody will distract you from it.

I feel like I’m disappearing.

When you kissed me, I felt like I existed—me, not the kid who’s been on this same path since birth.

Me.

I know it will never mean the same thing to you. I know you want to forget it. But I’m going to remember that long after you’ve forgotten that I exist.

My stomach tightens. There’s a rawness, a nakedness to this, one that sweeps through my attempts to push him away.

I get out another piece of paper. Up in front, the professor talks. I can pretend that it doesn’t matter. I can.

But I don’t. Instead, I write back.

I’m scared I’ll tell myself lies. I’m scared I’ll—fall in love with you, I want to write. But that’s too big, too scary to even put down in words, even in the hypothetical. Instead, I settle for get attached to you. I’m scared I’ll pin my hopes on you and I don’t have so many hopes that I can afford to lose one.

My hand is shaking as I pass this back. Truth is, it’s too late already for that. And I already know what he’s going to say: Don’t be scared, baby. I would never hurt you.

But I don’t want to be comforted. I’m shaking, trying to figure out how to explain that my fear makes me safe. That I don’t want to get rid of it. Without fear, I am too comfortable. Without fear, I make mistakes. I have to be careful.

But he doesn’t say what I expect.

Instead, he writes: Is there anything I can do to make you feel safe?

My throat closes. It matters that he doesn’t tell me that my feelings are stupid, that they need to be shoved aside. My emotions are a tangling, irrational mess—but they’re still mine, and my fear mixes with confusion, respect, and appreciation.

For a moment, I imagine it. I think of that future where I can kiss Blake and not fear. I imagine my heart unshielded, open and ready to be crushed. I imagine the kind of person who could put herself out like that.

I imagine reaching over and taking his hand, saying to him, “There is something you can do, and you just did it.” My fingers inch to the edge of the desk. My palm tingles. One motion, and…