Page 42 of My Best Friend's Dad

“I’m not brave, Rowleigh,” I continue. “I’m not even brave enough to make over my condo or get a cat, even though I’ve wanted one forever. Mika is the only person on earth who seesthe real me. She loves me for me. I don’t even know ifIlove me for me. I’ve wanted to be strong. Bolder. But I…I…I’m not. It was ridiculous to think I could show you what it means to be alive when I don’t even know what it feels like.” I rub my cheeks with the back of my hand, collecting the stubborn tears that insist on leaking out. “And now I feel as dumb as if I’d just danced in place and sang the song that literally just says banana over and over again.”

All the oxygen in this barn literally just gets sucked right out. It’s so quiet and still in here that if there were pigeons in the rafters and one of them shat, and it was perfectly muffled by the earthly ground, we’d still hear it.

Maybe that’s a bad example.

Also, apparently, you’re supposed to be able to tell if snakes are poisonous or not by checking out their bum scales. That wasn’t just a random reference. Once in a while, when doom scrolling late at night, you learn something.

“While we’re on the topic of confessions, I want you to know that I’m a fraud.” It would be nice if I could stop humiliating myself further, but the words just keep on coming. “I plan people’s weddings, and I love that. I love it so freaking much. I went to school for it, and I had to fight my parents to let me do that, so that’s not fraudulent, but I’ve never been in love myself. I make people feel like everything is going to be handled by a professional who knows all about handling such things, and I do handle it. I handle it like a freaking lady boss.”

I’ve cried so many more tears that my face is tight and hot. My contacts might be saline-washed, but they’re total shards of glass. Getting them out would be the relief of a lifetime. On top of it all, I hiccup. Loudly.

I snatch up the water bottle and beat a fast path outside. I’m not running away. I just need to get my contacts out before they detonate.

My glasses are in my car. I chug the rest of the water, wipe my face on my sleeve, though it probably just smears more grime around than it takes off, and get out the plastic bag with the soapy water I packed, thinking there might not be a place to wash my hands in a pinch. It’s a road trip thing that I learned from my mom. And by road trip, I mean going to the park or the grocery store. She’s always prepared, and she hates wet wipes. This probably isn’t much better, but at least I feel okay about sticking my fingers in my eyes to drag the contacts out. They’re disposables, and I set them in my little garbage bag in the passenger footwell.

Sliding my wire-rim glasses on has never felt more like heaven.

I get them on just in time to see Rowleigh walking from the barn with purposeful strides. His body is a moving work of art, a living statue. He’s so freaking beautiful that it takes my breath away.

And he has my evil bear in his hand.

He doesn’t say anything. He just thrusts it out to me.

“Oh. I…I wasn’t leaving. I just had to get those contacts out before they ate me alive. I’m sorry.” I bite my lip, though I know it’s a bad habit, and it’s such an obvious thing to do, drawing attention to my awkwardness and anxiety.

He’s quiet. Stoic. But not closed off or angry. Rowleigh isn’t like other rich men. He’s not like other men, period. He doesn’t have a huge ego that gets in the way of everything. He’s not quiet because he’s trying to make me uncomfortable or because he’s seething with rage. He’s just silent as he searches for the right words.

I think.

I hope.

He holds my gaze. My eyes are sore, probably red rimmed, aching from the contacts. I probably look like I have double pink eye, with my glasses magnifying the horror.

I take the bear without our hands brushing. I hold it in my arms, cradling it like it’s a baby that wouldn’t eat my nose off if it had a chance. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” I know I already said that. But it bears saying again.

I am. I am sorry. So fucking sorry.

He either doesn’t want to say anything, or he can’t. I don’t want to beg for it, but I don’t know what to do. I lean against my car, clutching the bear. “Please say something. If you want. If you can. I’d appreciate it.” His lips part, but no sound comes out. “Please tell me I haven’t broken you all over again. That I haven’t entirely deconstructed your faith in humanity.”

“What other dark confessions do you have?”

A tiny little spark of humor dances in his eyes. He gives nothing else away, but it’s enough to prick the massive balloon of worry that’s in my insides, letting some of the air out.

“That’s pretty much it. Unless you count the fact that I like to time my laundry just right so I can put the wash into the dryer right around the time I go to bed because I like the sound of the dyer balls beating around in there. I have many, many dryer balls. And I like this song that drives everyone crazy. The banana song.”

He frowns. “Explain it?”

“I can’t,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Please.”

I take a deep breath and set the bear on the top of my car, relenting. “It goes like banana, banana, ban-anna-anna-anna. Just over and over again.” I repeat it, wriggling my hips this time. On the third time, I jump from side to side, my hands in the air overhead and pointing upwards, imitating a long banana.

Or a deranged rocket ship.

His lips twitch. They fall flat but then twitch again. He finally loses the battle and grins so hard that a dimple pops out. “I see.”

I see too. That dimple. His lips. It’s impossible not to laugh a little and smile, too, just because looking at him is like looking into the sun, and the sun is vital for all things that are living. My stomach bottoms out, my nipples bottom out, my bottom bottoms out.