Chapter 21
MYLES
“I’ve always been this way,” she mumbles.
“No, you haven’t.” My eyes roam over her, following her frown and downcast eyes to her clenched hands.
She wasn’t always this rude, closed-off person. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but she started pulling away from me even before Duke. She went from being the one person I thought would never hurt me to being the person who hurt me the most.
My heart tugs as I think back to how she used to smile.
When we first met, I was painfully shy and I didn’t have friends because we’d just moved into the area.
But talking to her was easy. She loved to talk, and when she talked, the world felt exciting.
We weren’t going to the park; we were going on an excursion to a hidden island in the Pacific.
She didn’t have a tree house in her backyard.
It was a castle. Every moment was an adventure.
But sometimes she’d quiet down and ask me questions. Every time I answered, she’d lean in close with her chin perched on her hands as she listened. Even when I only spoke a few words, she’d smile like my silly, insignificant thoughts mattered. It reminded me of the way my dad listened to me.
Maybe that’s why it hurt when she pushed me away. She knew me completely, in every way, and she chose to leave me. Was I not good enough for her?
To be honest, this is the first time in a while that I’ve seen her spark back. The way she jumped me two days ago and refused to take no for an answer makes me wonder if maybe the Emma I used to know is still buried somewhere deep inside.
Emma doesn’t say anything more, and I don’t either.
I don’t know how to process all of this, and I don’t know how to act around her.
There are so many unresolved feelings consuming me.
A hatred for how she treated me, the confusion of the moment, and the way my heart still skips when she looks at me.
I start the car and drive.
“Where are we going?”
“To the gas station.” We can’t just stay on the side of the road forever. “We need to fill the car up the rest of the way.”
She nods, accepting my answer, and we’re back to the awkward quiet. This isn’t what I’m used to. She’s the one who is supposed to fill the silence, but instead, the only sound is from the tires on the pavement.
When we get to the gas station, I step out of the car and fill it up, watching her the whole time. She leans against the window like she’s broken and tired.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t stand it. If we’re going to spend the rest of the day together, I can’t handle her being upset the whole time.
I walk into the gas station, straight to the ice cream case, and grab a chocolate fudge bar.
When I get into the car, I set it on her lap, letting the plastic wrapper wrinkle against her pants.
“What’s this for?”
I shrug. “I figured you were hungry.”
“For ice cream?”
“Just eat it. I got your favorite.”
She stares at the ice cream bar, but she doesn’t open it. I’ve never seen her hesitate to eat ice cream before. It’s her favorite treat, so what’s wrong? Does she not like the brand? Did her favorite ice cream change?
“Why are you being nice to me?” she asks, eyes still on the ice cream.
“I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I don’t know how I feel or why seeing her sitting next to me has me off balance and unfocused. Maybe it’s an old habit of taking care of her that’s kicked in or maybe I’m too flustered to think straight.
She stays still, in her thoughts, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through her head. Why does it matter if I’m being nice? Would she rather have us at each other’s throats again?
At this rate the ice cream is going to melt.
I reach for it. “I’ll open it.”
“No, it’s fine.”
She moves fast, and in a second her hand is on top of mine. My heart speeds up from the gentle warmth of her hand and for some reason I can’t pull away. All I can think about is how she avoided me for so long and suddenly she’s in reach again.
This touch is different. She isn’t being hostile or rude. She’s simply existing in the same space as me right now.
Her hand flinches away. “Sorry—”
“Why did you push me away?” I blurt out, hands shaking from the nerves running through my body. I need to know, and she’s never explained herself. She brushed me off and refused to talk to me. It’s not like she’s going to run off this time.
“What?”
I say it slower this time. “Why did you push me away back then?”
She fidgets with her seatbelt, pulling it loose like it’s too tight. “You know what happened.”
I pull my hand away, trying to find a place for it to be that feels normal, but every movement is wrong. Her touch lingers as a reminder of how we used to be. “No, I don’t. Did I do something wrong?”
“You didn’t do anything,” she mumbles.
“Then tell me why.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Yes, it does—”
“It doesn’t.”
“I want to know.”
“I killed Duke!” she yells, and the words hang in the air. She’s somehow managed to get closer with every sentence and is only inches away from me, leaning over the center console. She swallows, breathing heavy, staring directly at me.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “You did.” I knew that part of the story, but it’s what happened after that I don’t understand. How come she didn’t apologize? Why did she ignore and avoid me?
Her eye contact breaks. “So what was I supposed to do? It’s not like I could’ve fixed it.”
“But you didn’t even try.”
“I didn’t want to.”
I can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. How could she say that like I wasn’t worth fighting for? Did she really think that little of me and all we’d been through?
“Why?” I beg.
She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter now.”
My frustration builds, annoyed with how evasive she’s being again. I wouldn’t be asking these questions if it didn’t matter. I’d spent countless hours agonizing over these questions. “Why didn’t you try?”
“Can we just talk about something else?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Why is it so hard to answer that question?” My voice rises again. “You want me to stay away from Mallory and I’m cooperating. The least you could do is—”
“I wanted you to hate me.” She says it so quickly I almost miss it. She pulls her legs up to her chest and moves as far over as she can without getting out of the car. “There. Happy?”
“What?” It’s like she just kicked me in the stomach.
“I wanted you to hate me because I knew I’d never be good enough for you.”
My blood runs cold, freezing over and halting any flow to my heart. How could she think that? She’s Emma. She was the only person I was close to growing up. Did she really think one mistake would erase everything we had?
“How could you think that?”
“Because it’s true. I hurt you.”
“Pushing me away hurt me more,” I say. It flows right off my tongue like I’ve been waiting to say it forever. It was locked and loaded, firing at the first opportunity.
She bites her lip and shakes her head. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or not, but her eyes seem to be strained. “Come on. We were already drifting apart.”
I think back to my freshman year, and how little we saw each other when we were in separate schools. Was she right? Was our relationship already ruined by that point? “I thought you didn’t want me around.”
“I didn’t know how to handle my mom leaving, and I didn’t know how to talk to you about it.”
I knew she was upset about her mom, but she brushed it off every time I brought it up. She acted like she was fine. “You should’ve tried.”
“How could I? I killed Duke. And when that happened, I proved everything my mom said about me true.”
“What do you mean? What did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
I think back to all of the times I saw Emma beg for her mother’s attention, and it makes my skin crawl. “Tell me. Please.”
She lets out a breath, then says barely above a whisper, “She said I was too hard to love, and if I wanted her to love me, I should’ve made it easier.”
Rage fills my bones. How could this woman tell Emma something so awful? How could this woman be called a mother? I’d understand if Emma was a bad person, but the Emma I grew up with—my Emma—was a girl who deserved to be loved. Her mother never saw how amazing Emma was.
“You should've told me,” I say. There’s an ache in my chest, wishing I could comfort her better, but nothing I say will change the past.
“I thought you’d be happier without me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you sure? You seem fine. When you went to high school, you moved on and made new friends. Back then I felt guilty when you spent time with me because you’d act all awkward and uninterested like you’d rather be somewhere else. We probably would’ve drifted apart anyway.”
“I wasn’t acting that way because I didn’t want to be around you,” I say.
“Then why?”
This conversation feels like white flags being waved high into the air, like we’re warring countries sharing our biggest secrets. We aren’t yelling or arguing. We’re talking the way I wish we had years ago before everything became complicated.
My cheeks burn, heat rising to my face as my heart pounds.
Her being this close doesn’t help calm my nerves.
If anything, it brings back the memories of butterflies in my stomach when I’d stare at her long lashes.
Or how I’d take pictures of her when she stopped walking to smell a flower or skip rocks.
I don’t think she ever knew, or if she did, she never stopped me.
“Because I liked you,” I say. “And that scared me.”