Page 37 of The Wrong Guy
We’d talk, sit and watch the sun set and the moon rise, and hold hands while we walked up and down the bank of the creek. He said it was so I wouldn’t fall in the sometimes-sticky mud, but in my head, it was because he wanted to touch me, even when we weren’t fucking.
And that’s where he’s taking me now. To the place where I stupidly fell in love with him.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I announce, for his benefit and mine.
I feel the weight of his gaze when he turns to look at me. “I have no intention of sleeping with you tonight either. We need to talk,” he repeats.
We fall silent for the rest of the drive. I don’t know about him, but my mind is racing. I need to prepare my opening statement, arguments, and closing statements so I’m not caught by surprise with whatever he wants to say. He wants to talk? Fine, I’ll talk. But Jesse has no idea what’s coming for him.
When he pulls off the dirt road and puts the truck in park, I don’t move, but he still says, “Stay there. You don’t have shoes on.”
He gets out, grabbing the thick moving blanket he keeps in the back seat of the truck, and then disappears for a moment. As he steps behind a tree, I murmur, “Whose fault is that?”
He comes back a minute later and opens my door. I’ve already taken my seat belt off and considered using it to choke him, but when he turns around and gives me his back, I do exactly what he wants me to do. I hop on, piggyback-style.
This is ridiculous. You are Wren Fucking Ford. What are you doing?
But that’s the pain talking and I know it. I don’t want to have this conversation because while I’ve been mentally preparing for what I’m going to say, part of that process is acknowledging what the other person will argue to plan effective rebuttals. In my head, I’ve heard Jesse explicitly say that I’m too cold, too work-oriented, too ballsy ... too not what he wants. And even imagining it hurts. Especially since there’s no denying it. It’s all true.
But that stupid little shred of hope has been resuscitated by Grandpa Joe’s words. The lad’s in love with you.
There’s no way. I know there’s no way or we wouldn’t have spent the last year apart. But that stupid sliver is so loud. Why are hope and hurt so powerful?
Jesse squats down so I can step onto the blanket easily, and I sit down. I stretch my legs out in front of me, but that feels too nakedly vulnerable, so I fold them in front of me instead and sit up straight. All it’d take is a little “om” and I’d be ready for a yoga class.
But there’s no inner peace to be found here tonight. I think, at best, I can hope for brutal honesty.
Jesse pulls off his boots and sits down beside me, as if this were just a regular picnic or some casual stargazing. He stretches his legs out long, not naked at all in his work-distressed jeans and bright-white socks that I know are pulled up under his jeans. The first time I saw him in boxer briefs and tall socks up his muscular calves, I’d laughed. I don’t know why it’d been unexpectedly funny. But it’d come to be an oddly sexy look—on him.
Yeah, I’m not exactly your typical lingerie girl. I want panties that cover my ass and apparently have a thing for boot socks on men. But the heart wants what it wants.
“You said you want to talk, so talk,” I tell him. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. Don’t show your cards until the other guy does. I’ll make adjustments on the fly to my opening statement based on Jesse’s, and then I’m responding only to the specific questions asked of me without revealing things I don’t want to.
Jesse rubs his feet together, cricketing he calls it, something he usually does to calm down, which tells me he’s angry, or irritated at least. The only sound is sock-on-sock friction and the racing beat of my own heart in my ears.
Finally, the full weight of his gaze lands on me. “Hazel and Avery came to Puss N Boots and gave me hell after your girls’ night in. They told me some shit that has me confused.”
That sounds like an accusation, like this is all my fault.
“And that gives you the right to kidnap me? So I can help you get unconfused?” I counter snarkily.
He cuts his eyes over knowingly. “You came with me willingly, and we both know it.”
I don’t answer because I don’t trust that I can lie convincingly. If I’d really refused to go with Jesse, he would’ve put me down. But I didn’t. I made a show of fighting him. I hrrmph and he nods.
“Good, now that we’ve addressed that, let’s get to the real stuff.” That’s all the warning I get before he dives into my heart. “Why were you crying?”
Instantly, silent tears streak down my cheeks again, and I’m thankful for the darkness surrounding us so that he can’t see my weakness, because this is not who I am.
But he knows. Somehow, though I don’t make a sound or move a muscle, he knows.
His strong arms snake around me, and he pulls me sideways into his lap in one smooth movement. I’m like a doll to him, but his touch is gentle as he swipes my tears away with his thumbs. “Why, Wren?” he whispers in a gruff voice.
This is not how this is happening. He wants to talk? Then he can talk. I’m not revealing myself to be told outright that I need to tone it down a notch. Instead, I go on the offensive. Wiggling violently, I push at his chest to put distance between us. “Stop manhandling me and demanding that I tell you things.” Climbing out of his lap to kneel on the blanket, I snap, “If I’d wanted to have this conversation, I would’ve bitched you out a year ago. But I’ve been doing really well at not telling you off like you deserve.”
At this point, I’m doing as much talking with my hands as I am my mouth, but at least I hold back from slapping him.
“Same!” he shouts back. “This has been a long time coming, so let’s do this. Go ahead and say that I’m shit who’s not worth your time and you were slumming it with me.” He moves to his knees, too, spreading them wide and getting even louder. “Go ahead, Wren. Do your worst. I fucking need it.” He grabs his shirt right over his heart, pulling at it with furor. “Maybe then I’ll finally find a way to not love you. Bitch me out with all you’ve got.”