Never Sweeter (Dark Obsession #1)(30)

“Did you just say if you make it that far? If, as is in maybe not?”

“It puts a lot of strain on the body. And then there’s, like…head injuries.”

“And you think you like wrestling? You think it’s really awesome?”

“I think I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it. Nobody to blame for that but me.”

He shrugged one now visible shoulder, that self-consciousness partly gone. Though what did it matter, when it had been replaced by this awful fatalism? He sounded like someone being slowly marched to his death, and he capped it off by being more concerned about her.

“You, on the other hand, have plenty to blame on someone else.”

“Like what? What should I really blame you for?”

“Are you kidding? You don’t trust anything I do. You don’t trust anything that anybody does.”

“And you would know that how, exactly?”

“Because you flinch about a second after anyone says your name. Because the look on your face when your new buddy comes running up is like a flower, grateful that the sun has risen again. Because you choose seats at the back without fail; you eat nothing in the cafeteria in case someone is watching. It took you twenty minutes to dare come into the gym because you knew other people like me were in there, and you always will until the day you die. I made that happen to you, Letty. I made you take the road marked FOREVER WARY OF OTHER HUMAN BEINGS, instead of the one you should have taken.”

“And what was the one I should have taken?”

“The one that leads to an apartment somewhere cool like New York City, surrounded by cool friends who all do cool things like writing articles and making documentaries, every night full of wine and TV marathons and board games, and you have some guy, some great guy who wears glasses and has a big, dark beard and knows how to quote poetry and make seasoned cashews and shit.”

She managed a laugh after that. Shook her head and even rolled her eyes a little—for the cashews part though, really. Not for the rest of it. The rest of it was making her heart rattle around in her chest.

“So you think I deserved a hipster boyfriend.”

“You know what I mean. You know what I’m saying.”

“I do. I just really doubt I would have ever had those things.”

“Yeah, but unlike me, you had a shot at living that f*cking awesome life. And I swear to god, if it kills me, if it takes me a thousand years—I’m going to give you that back,” he said.

Then suddenly her eyes were stinging again. She had to start fussing with the sweater just to get it under control, finally getting it off. The tears were still coming. They were starting to make her lower lip tremble, so obvious that the only way to truly hide it was to swim away for the second time.

But he caught it all the same.

He caught it before she could even make the turn.

“Oh my god. Are you…are you crying? Did I make you cry? Holy shit how do I keep doing this? That was meant to be reassuring. I was trying to be reassuring to you.”

“I’m not crying because you failed at reassuring me, Tate.”

“Then what are you crying for?”

“A ton of reasons. Happiness and regret and relief and, like, eight thousand other things. I mean, you just basically told me you want me to have something that you don’t think you’ll ever get. That is where you’re at right now: wishing me well while you probably die of wrestling-related head injuries.”

“I’m not going to die of wrestling-related head injuries, Letty. If anything, I’m probably going to die because mobsters got mad that I wouldn’t throw fights for them.”

He spoke the last part so flippantly she almost rode right over it. Her next words were going to be but you just told me the head injuries could happen, until she took a second to process. Then she just had to stop what she had been doing—swimming lazy circles around the deep end—and stare at him.

Hard. Really, really hard.

“What? What did you just say? Tell me you did not just say that.”

“Uh…uh…I don’t really…I’m not sure I remember.”

He got a look on his face like someone trying to do algebra in their head.

She knew what he was really doing, however.

Attempting to think up lies.

“You just said mobsters. That was the word you used. Mobsters.”

“Well, they weren’t exactly mobsters.”

“Oh my god. So now not only are you competing in a sport you hate, you’re competing in a sport you hate that mobsters are trying to control in some kind of illegal gambling ring.”

“It sounds way out there when you put it like that.”

“How else would you put it?”

He shrugged one shoulder, expression suddenly sheepish.

“Kind of exactly like that.”

“But you didn’t say yes to them, right? You laughed and walked away.”

“I don’t think you really want to be laughing at these guys. One of them looks sort of like a lizard in a real fancy suit. Like, the suit had a little pocket for his handkerchief and everything.”

“I don’t know how it’s possible, but that somehow makes it even more disturbing.”

“Yeah, I sorta figured that. My first instinct was: don’t get involved with a guy who has a handkerchief that looks like a dagger coming out of his breast pocket.”