Page 110 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“I’m more than hurt.” I’m pacing now, arms crossed, trying to process. “I’m angry. I trusted him. I let him in. And this whole time, he’s been holding back, keeping secrets, deciding what I’m allowed to know about our relationship.”
Tori is quiet, letting me rant.
“That’s messed up,” I continue. “That’s not what I signed up for. I told him about Derek, about how he made me feel small and like my feelings didn’t matter. And Banks is doing the same thing—just in a different way.”
“I don’t think he means to—”
“I know he doesn’t mean to. That almost makes it worse.” I stop pacing and sink back onto the couch. “He’s so convinced that he has to handleeverything alone. That letting someone help is weakness. And I can’t—I can’t with someone who won’t let me in.”
Tori scoots closer and puts an arm around me. I let my head drop onto her shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” The anger is already fading, leaving something heavier in its place. Sadness. Disappointment. Fear. “Part of me wants to confront him. Demand answers. But another part…”
“Another part?”
“Another part is tired.” I close my eyes. “I’ve done this before. Chasing someone who won’t meet me halfway. Trying to prove I’m worth trusting. It’s exhausting. And I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again.”
“Yeah. But Banks isn’t Derek.”
“No. But he’s still keeping me at arm’s length.” I sit up and wipe my eyes—when did I start crying? “I can’t make him open up. I can’t force him to let me in. If he wanted to tell me about this, he would have. The fact that he didn’t…” I trail off.
“The fact that he didn’t what?”
“Maybe it means I’m not as important to him as I thought.”
Tori doesn’t argue. Doesn’t offer false reassurance. Just pulls me into a hug and lets me sit with the weight of it.
Banks might be leaving. He didn’t tell me.
And I don’t know what hurts more—the possibility of losing him, or the realization that maybe I never really had him at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Breaking Point
Winnie
Logan’s new place is chaos.
I spot it from half a block away—a moving truck double-parked on the street, furniture scattered across the front lawn like the aftermath of a yard sale gone wrong, and what appears to be an abandoned ottoman sitting on the sidewalk. The brownstone itself is charming: a brick duplex with matching bay windows, wrought iron railings on the steps, and a small front yard with a tree that’s probably beautiful in summer. Right now, the tree is bare, the lawn is covered in cardboard boxes, and three large men stand in the middle of it all, looking completely out of their depth.
I park across the street and kill the engine, taking a moment to observe the scene. The spring air is crisp when I step out, carrying the smell of damp pavement. Brooklyn in early spring is caught between winter’s grip and the promise of warmth, everything gray and brown and waiting to bloom.
One of the guys spots me as I make my wayacross the street, dodging a rogue armchair that has somehow ended up on the sidewalk. Logan waves enthusiastically as he spots me, nearly dropping the lamp he’s carrying.
“Winnie! You came!” He sets the lamp down on the lawn (not the safest choice, but I let it go) and bounds over. “Thank God. We need an adult.”
Despite my somber mood, I smile. “You are an adult, Logan. You’re twenty-three.”
“Barely. And I don’t count.” He pulls me into a hug, all warmth and uncomplicated joy. Logan gives great hugs. It’s one of his many talents. “Thanks for coming. I need your eye. Everything I pick is apparently ‘too loud’ or ‘an assault on good taste.’”
“Who said that?”
“Weston.” Logan jerks his thumb toward the moving truck, where a guy is wrestling with a mattress twice his size. “He’s one of my new roommates. The fun one.”
I study the mattress wrestler, shading my eyes against the pale afternoon sun. Weston is tall—not quite as tall as Banks, but close—with dark hair that’s short on the sides and longer on top. His arms are thick with muscle, straining against his T-shirt as he maneuvers the mattress, and even from here I can see the sharp cut of his jaw and the intensity of his focus. He looks like the kind of guy who takes everything seriously, including mattress transportation.
He also looks like he’s losing the battle.
