Page 40 of Someone Else's Wolf

"I was waiting for you."

"Just leave it alone. I don't care what you think of him, or me, or any of it," I said desperately. "It's off the table, remember? Me and the wolf, none of your concern."

Kirk's jaw tightened, and he squeezed the wheel harder. He didn't look at me, and he drove grimly. But I wasn't going to apologize. By rights, he ought to. The silence was chilly. I felt like shit, and I'd been so happy earlier.

I wasn't prepared to look at the things that made me unhappy about the situation with Peter. I liked Peter, I liked sex with Peter, and I could put up with sports, even if I might be counting down the days till hockey season ended.

But did he have to sayI love youlike that, and when Kirk could hear, too? I felt exposed, ashamed, cold inside and very alone because he hadn't meant it, and he wouldn't have said it if he hadn't been so entirely distracted.

He'd meant it once, with someone, and perhaps sometimes I reminded him of that someone. But it wasn't me; that wasn't real. I would never tell him he'd said it because that would show it mattered to me, that I'd been hurt by his little slip.

I couldn't let myself be hurt by such things. I knew what this was, and what it wasn't.

"But you're so hurt," Kirk said quietly. "I'm not supposed to say something when you smell like that?"

"Don't smell me, then." I looked out the window, my jaw clenching. The backs of my eyes prickled, and I knew I was being oversensitive and foolish. I knew my heart shouldn't feel splintery, or ache over one little thing, or even a bunch of little things. All the things I set aside not to think about, and how very hard I tried to be matter-of-fact.

I wasn't matter-of-fact. I wasn't a very good casual FWB. I wanted it all — or at least, more of it. I wanted to matter to Peter as much as I felt like I did when his attention was all on me. I wanted to matter as much as he mattered to me.

It was getting too hard to deal with the back and forth: feeling like I mattered to him, and other times realizing how very much I didn't. Relationships shouldn't take up this much energy, should they? But that was just how it was.

Over the next couple of days, I tried to talk myself out of that feeling. Maybe it wasn't about him loving someone else; maybe there was a reason for it that didn't mean I was a second-best substitute for someone he missed.

But the feeling persisted.

#

Peter reached out and gently captured me by the wrist as I walked past. "Shane. Don't be upset." He rubbed the inside of my wrist with his strong thumb. "You know I didn't mean to hurt you, don't you?"

I thought we weren't going to talk about this?

"Don't I?" I turned and looked at him, almost glaring as I pulled free.

He seemed to shrink into himself. "Of course you do. Why is it such a big deal, anyway?"

I debated whether to tell the truth and risk the relationship, but before I could decide, the words came spilling out. I was too mad to be sensible — it must have been building for days.

"Because I care more than you do. Because if it was true, you wouldn't only say it by accident, and if it's not true..." I let that trail off, because of course it wasn't true, and what was I going to do, leave him because he didn't love me? Obviously not; I knew I had a good thing here. He was still a better boyfriend and lover than I'd ever had before. I was nuts about him, even if he didn't feel the same way.

He didn't seem to have anything to say. He just looked at me, so I went on. "You were the one who approached me. You couldn't keep your hands off me at work. Then you took me home with you, and we — well, it got serious for me. But not for you, apparently. You've taken such special pains to remind me that it's not serious, it can't be serious, let's not put words to it, let's not get too attached here. Why the fuck not? What would be so awful about you getting attached to me?"

I wasn't normally one to make a scene. On some level, I was appalled at myself. But it felt good to let go. "Why couldn't you keep your hands to yourself if you didn't want anything serious, huh? Why do you go out of your way to keep me in your life, and cook for me, and — and all of it? Why aren't we seeing other people, and why do I spend most days off with you — almost like I live here? Except there's no corner of the closet for me, and, oh no,don't put it into words. Don't dare to imagine there should or could be emotions involved. Those icky emotions."

I glared at him, almost shaking with rage. I kept my voice steady, but it was low and harsh, sounding mean and really angry. I hadn't thought my hurt would turn to such levels of fury.

His gaze skittered away from me. "Why are you acting like this? Can't what we have be enough?"

"Sure. Sure, it fucking can." Suddenly, I felt exhausted. What was the point? Getting angry wasn't going to change him; I knew that. I was still angry, but so tired, too. I sank down onto the sofa opposite him. "You're okay with me seeing other people, then?"

He drew back, blinking hard several times, and swallowed visibly. There was immense pain in his eyes as he nodded cautiously. "Sure. If you want to."

"And do you?"

His expression grew cautious. "That's not really in the bounds of good taste to ask."

"Of course it fucking is! We have unprotected sex, you asshole!" That had started a couple of weeks ago, after we'd exchanged fresh, clean tests. It had felt amazing then, but now, not so much. "Are you fucking around on me?"

He held up his hands, made a shushing movement and a sound to match. Damn it. "Hush. No, of course I'm not. I'm only unprotected with you."