Chapter 22
twenty-two
Sadie
I’ve seen Colson simply detest the existence of the world, be annoyed at the smallest things, like the sun being out in the summer and he can’t find his sunglasses. But right now? His annoyance, or whatever he’s feeling, is next level.
And it’s my fault.
Right now, I’m trying to distract myself from this fact and focus on the things around me.
I’ve never been inside Colson’s house until now.
And one thing’s for sure—this isn’t what I’d ever expect.
Everything is so light and has the type of put-together colors and patterns that screams this wasn’t his call.
Like, there’s no world I live in where Colson asks for these lovely yellow kitchen cabinets.
There’s nothing besides the sound of my teeth chattering together and the rain dripping down my back, soaking me to my bones. My cheeks sting from the wind, viciously energized from the lake.
I’m looking around, cataloging the details of the parts of the house I can see, when Colson hands me a towel. I pull at my jacket zipper and he helps me take it off, hanging it on a few of the entryway hooks.
I pull the towel around my shoulders, trying to warm up. Looking down, I see my shirt is sticking to my skin. Damn. The wind and rain were no match for my jacket.
The tension between us is smothering; I’m almost afraid to move. Maybe I’ll dry out in the entryway and Colson can go on with his night before the storm and I crashed it.
“Are you really just going to stand there?” he asks, as I’m contemplating how long I think I could stand in a single spot. He puts a kettle on the stove.
“As soon as it’s safe,” I say quietly, “I’ll head home.”
Colson’s head snaps up. “Why?”
I shrug, embarrassed heat creeping up my neck. “Because I am not your problem. This isn’t your problem. And because”—I gesture vaguely—“you’re clearly mad.”
“I am mad,” he agrees with me.
My stomach drops because knowing it and hearing someone say it are two different things. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t even know what I’m mad about.”
I frown. “I think I get it.” It’s hard to look at him, so I get a quick glance before focusing on the kettle heating on the burner.
“No. You absolutely don’t get it.” He steps closer. “You, standing out there in that storm?” he says. “That’s what I’m mad about.”
I blink. “I was handling it.”
“No,” he says immediately, “you were risking it.”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“That’s bullshit. We’re talking about taking cover sort of weather and you’re out there and then you’re about to drive home?”
The words land heavy between us.
He continues, voice tight. “I watched the road flood, and when I think you’re finally going to realize it’s too much, you don’t. You have your keys in your hand and all I can think about is how much you would rather risk instead of asking me for help.”
I cross my arms, defensive. “I didn’t want to push.”
“Why?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Dangerous.
“I didn’t want to be a burden,” I admit. The words feel small and almost pathetic on my lips.
Something breaks across his face.
“That,” he says, shaking his head and pointing to the words as if they need emphasis, “is the part I can’t stand.”
“Believe me, I know there’s a lot you can’t stand.”
Colson scoffs, puts his hands on his hips, and looks around the room like he’s looking for the next move. The puzzle piece. When his eyes are on mine, I suddenly can barely breathe. They are like waters I dream of swimming in.
He goes still. For a beat, the only sound is the rain hammering the roof.
He says nothing as he walks toward me; when he’s standing only a step away, all I can think about is how I wish I could get my teeth to stop chattering.
His face softens as he takes a breath. “You know what I can’t stand?
How much it hurt for me to see you out there.
How panicked I was. How the only thing I could think about was getting you inside and keeping you safe. ”
The words are honest and clear. His eyes scan my face like he’s trying to find the tell. The way he looks at me is like the answer should’ve been obvious all along.
He cares.
My chest tightens as his hands grip my upper arms. When they rub the towel, like he’s trying to keep me warm, he continues, “I don’t know when it happened, but you matter in a way I wasn’t prepared for.” He looks around like the words may or may not be on the ceiling.
And then he says, “You fucking matter, Sadie.”
Did I feel a pull to him? Yes. But I never thought it was something he also felt. My dreams were the only place a version of this conversation could happen.
“I do?” The question feels rhetorical but I’m trying to keep this all straight.
“Yes. You do. And I can’t sit back and watch you do things like that.” He tips his head toward the outside.
His chest rises and falls quickly, matching his breathing. My hand, pruny from the water, lightly rests on him, the feel of his muscles underneath my palm grounding me to the moment.
Silence crashes down, thick and trembling. I stare at him, the truth finally clear in a way I can’t ignore.
Gripping the front of his shirt, trying not to lose my nerve, I say, “Then take care of me, Colson.”
Before his name is off my lips, Colson is kissing me.