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I’m barely able to curb the urge to drop everything in my hands and snatch it away from her.
When I set her order in front of her she looks up at me. “I hope you don’t mind I’m checking out your book.”
I do mind.
Because for eight years, Henley and I are the only people who’ve touched it. The only people who’ve read it. That made it ours.
And now it’s not.
She turns it over in her hands and flips through a few pages. “It was on one of my college reading lists, but I never got around to it—what’s this?” she says, her finger pointing to the inscription I wrote in it years again. When she sees Henley’s name, she looks up at me. Whatever she sees on my face has her closing the book and sliding it across the table toward me. “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her, dragging the book toward me to study its worn cover. “I’m just…” Whatever I’m about to say dies before I can push it out.
I’m just what?
Not built for human connection.
Too fucked-up to have coffee with a woman without worrying about what she expects from me.
In love with someone who’s never going to love me back.
Not the way I need her to.
Kaitlyn’s hand reaches out and covers mine before I have a chance to pull away. “You’re just what, Conner?” Her voice is gentle, like she knows what I’m about to say and wants to make it easy on me.
“I’m just not ready.” I slide my hand out from under hers, taking my book with it. “I want to be. I want to be able to sit here and split a muffin with you and talk about Gatsby, but I can’t because I’m pretty fucked-up.” I stand, tucking my book into my pocket before shrugging into my jacket. “And I think I’m going to stay fucked-up for a long time, so it’s probably best that we chalk this up to an experiment gone wrong and call it quits.”
“Wait.” Her hand comes up again, connecting with the sleeve of my jacket. “We don’t have to talk about Gatsby.” She gives my sleeve a tug and for some inexplicable reason, I let her pull me back into my seat. “We don’t have to talk at all.” She lets go of my sleeve and reaches for her coffee and takes a sip. “I can drink my coffee and you can read your book and we can totally ignore each other.”
“That’s not much of a date.” Even I know that.
She laughs like I made some sort of joke instead of stating the obvious.
“But we have to split the muffin,” she says. “That part is non-negotiable.” Picking up the muffin, she breaks it in half to offer me my share.
I hesitate, but only for a second, before I take it.