Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Right?
In the dark, before dawn, it doesn’t feel like control. It feels like helping. She’s wrong. I don’t need to control everything.
But how did this conversation go so off the rails? I was supposed to slip downstairs, find some info to make sure she’s safe, cook her breakfast, and ask her to stay. For real. Tell her I’m madly, truly, deeply in love with her.
But instead? She finds me here—a strung-out mess before the sun even rises. This isn’t her falling for me. This is how friends stage an intervention.
I close my eyes, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m not trying to control everything,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. If I were trying to control things, I would’ve done a better job than this.
I look up, and she’s nodding, but it’s like she’s accepting my answer rather than believing it. “Okay. Maybe you’re not ready yet.”
Fuck ready.
This is not how things were supposed to go. I push away from the counter, pacing, my hand scrubbing the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, Maeve,” I say, but I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.
What was I thinking, letting her see these habits? Why wasn’t I more careful? I knew this might happen when we lived together. I knew she might see the real me. And now she has—and she’s trying to help me instead of falling for me. How could anyone fall for a guy…who needs help?
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “I’m supposed to help you. That’s what I do. I help people. I fix things.”
I don’t need to be fixed. That’s not how my world works.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” she says softly. “You don’t have to be amazing every second. You’re allowed to be human, Asher.” Her words are careful, like she’s trying to ease me into something. “I just want you to see what it’s doing to you.”
What it’s doing is breaking my heart. Because there’s no way these words are coming from a woman who’s falling in love with me. My chest tightens. I need to get a grip. I need to pull myself together before I can even think about saying anything to her. “I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”
She’s quiet for several seconds, clearly thinking. “It’s six in the morning,” she says, her voice steady. “I know you need some space. Why don’t I take the dog for a long walk? I can go back to my apartment, too, if you need that. I can stay with Leighton. The couch spring doesn’t scare me.”
Sweat beads on the back of my neck and my pulse spikes. “Okay,” I say distantly, taking the out she’s offering for now.
She nods, spinning around and heading upstairs, probably to get ready to walk the dog.
I shove both hands into my hair, pressing my palms hard against my scalp. She’ll be ready in five minutes. Five minutes to figure out how to fix this mess so she doesn’t leave. Maybe I can make her eggs the way she likes, brew her a chai latte, drive her to work. Then google how to pull this back from the brink. There has to be something—someone who knows what to say or do to stop her from walking out of my life before I go on the road.
I can get this…under control.
I freeze mid-thought. Control. There it is again. I want to control her reaction to my control problem.
The realization slams into me, harder than any hit I’ve taken on the ice. I drop my face into my hands, frustration brewing inside me as she comes back downstairs. And when I look up, she’s already heading for the door, about to walk away. I can’t be both a hot mess and a jerk. I can’t let her actually take me up on the offer for space—it’s not fair to her.
This is uncharted territory, but I take a deep breath and step into it.
“You don’t need to go,” I say, my voice rougher than I’d intended. “Because you’re right. I’m trying to control everything—even us.” I look away, the admission burning through my whole body, hurting my lungs, my bones, my breath. But I have to say it. “I’ve been pushing this into romantic territory, and I haven’t been listening to you. That’s not how best friends treat each other. And I’m sorry for that.” I’m shaking my head, amazed at the absolute mess I’ve made of…everything. This is like blowing every play in a game. Another breath. She watches patiently, waiting. “Maeve…I need to figure out what the hell is going on in my head. So, maybe I should leave instead.”
Her eyes widen. Her lips part. But after a few seconds, she says, “This is your place though.”
I glance around, flapping my arms in a half-hearted gesture at the kitchen. It’s never just been mine. For years I’ve been putting up artwork that reminds me of her. I’ve been learning how to make the drinks she likes. I’ve been making space for her before I even realized how I felt. But especially lately. “This place that I designed to make you stay. Hung your art. Encouraged you to move everything in here for appearances. Then, encouraged you to sublease your place. I even built you a studio so you’d like it better.” I shake my head, feeling the weight of every decision I’ve made in the name of helping, of controlling. “I wasn’t giving you a choice. I was controlling everything.”