Page 48 of Fragile Lives

“Like what?” I blink.

“All nonchalant.” He waves his hand at me. “I just told you something horrible, and here you are, looking at me like you just found a lost puppy and want to adopt it.”

“Not used to women looking at you like that?” I lift a brow.

“Yeah, they’re usually looking for the way to get into my impressive pants,” he replies with a lopsided smile, easily sliding into his charming character.

“Why do you put on this mask?”

“What?” he asks, confused, rearing back.

“Why did you pick this mask?”

“Which mask?”

“That.” I make a circle in the air around his face with my finger. “A carefree boy who never grows.”

His eyes narrow. “And Alex told me you don’t talk much.”

“I don’t.”

He turns toward me and quirks a brow, silently mocking me.

“I really don’t. Usually.” My brows draw together in confusion.

He’s right. Well, Alex is right. I don’t talk much, preferring to stay on the sidelines and watch people. Their body language usually tells me so much about their lives. And since I don’t have my own, I people-watch.

Archie lets out a loud sigh and longingly looks at the bed.

“You sleep there.” He nods toward the unmade bed he just took the blanket from. “Take the comforter. It’ll be cold.”

I look around, hoping for a couch to magically appear, or a second bed, but my Fairy Godmother clearly took the day off.

“Where will you sleep?”

“On the loveseat, maybe.” He looks at the short couch and winces as if the piece of furniture personally grew legs and came to punch him.

“You’re too big. You won’t fit,” I deadpan and realize too late that it’s Archie I’m talking to.

He quickly turns to me with the flirtiest half-tilt of his head. “You think?”

I roll my eyes. “We’re both adults and can sleep on the bed.”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat before continuing, “I don’t think so.” He glances at the floor in front of us. “I can sleep by the fire.”

“It’s going to be really cold on the floor. Does the closet have anything useful?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go check it out.” His face turns serious. “I didn’t bring much stuff with me—didn’t need it—so I didn’t even check the closet and dropped my bag straight in the bathroom.”

He rises to his feet and offers me his hand. But it’s not to impress me or to show how gentlemanly he is, no. He’s not even looking at me. Instead, his attention is focused on the closet as if it contains the last hope for humanity. His outstretched hand sits there, and I can’t stop looking at it. It’s such a simple gesture, but I’m about to cry. Every time someone offers me their hand to help, it feels meaningful.

Guys in college wanted to show how polite and well-mannered they were so they could get more girls. They made me feel used.

My brothers offered their hands when I fell on the ground while everyone was playing rough. Every time I was reminded that I should stay back so I wouldn’t get hurt. They made me feel small.

My coworkers wanted my hand so they could give it an extra hard shake to show how big and manly they were compared to me. They made me feel undeserving.

So eventually, a hand became something symbolic I chose to refuse every time.