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You’re not happy here right now. You said it yourself just today. And every day for a month before this. I don’t want to lose you, but you’re more important than our friendship, and dammit, this is what you want.”
“You were cruel to me.” “Was I?” That twinkle in his eye was another distraction. “Why?” “Probably the same reason I’m cruel to you now.” His answer made my insides feel sloshy, but I wasn’t backing down. “Which is?” “If you haven’t figured it out then hell if I can explain it to you.”
“You mean so that I’ll stop. So that I’ll stop saying things and doing things, things that maybe make you feel uncomfortable, but also make you feel alive for probably the first time in years. But you know what the problem with that is? The problem is that the thing you really want to stop isn’t me, it’s how you react. And that’s not going to go away with research or alcohol or stern conversations. And no matter how many times you tell this story to me, or yourself, it’s still never going to change that it’s exactly that—a story.”
“Save it for the bedroom. I like it when you struggle.” “This isn’t foreplay!” I pulled my hand free. “You can have your non-relationship rules, and I’ll follow them, but you don’t get to avoid me like I’m nothing and still expect me to walk into your arms the minute that you’re in the mood.” “I don’t expect that at all. I’d much rather you crawl.”
The paintings could have been chosen by an interior designer, but neither of the designs were what I’d imagine for a man like Donovan. And there was something about each of them—the stark loneliness of the pine trees, the frankness of the lilies—something about their honesty that made me certain that he’d picked them out himself.
I stayed locked in his gaze, and I realized then that he had me. Really had me. Like a fly caught in a web. From the outside, it seemed so much more tenuous and fragile, this hold of his. Like getting near him was risky but wouldn’t do any long-term harm because I’d manage to break free. What was a web anyway but mere strands of thin silk?
I wasn’t ready to end things with him either. That likely made me a masochist, something Donovan probably already knew about me,
Death did that, skewed things, built nests of guilt out of twigs of misdeeds and neglect.
