Page 59 of Sing For Me

“You’re not broken,” he says through gritted teeth, looking almost as angry as I feel.

“I am! I can’t even fucking kiss you without—without—”

His expression softens. “Will you please just tell me what happened?”

“I have flashbacks.” I cover my face with my hands. “All the fucking time.”

“Of the fire?”

I jerk my head in confirmation. “Sometimes it happens just out of the blue, no reason at all. And other times something happens to remind me, to make me think of—” I just shake my head. He doesn’t want to hear this, all the ways I’m screwed up.

“And that kiss?” he asks. “Did something about that trigger the flashback?”

I don’t want to answer that question. Don’t want him to ask why something like that would trigger me. “Being physically close to someone sets me off sometimes,” I mutter. It’s not a lie—it’s just not the whole truth. “But the point, Will, is that I’m still clearly really screwed up over this.”

I dig my fingers into my forehead, trying to stop the sudden pounding. “I thought things were getting better lately but now…”

I think about the day I had, the dull aching pain I’m still feeling from my PT session. The conversation with Dennis that had sent me into such a tailspin. My inability to even leave the house to do something as simple as having dinner with Will. And now this.

I finally make myself look up at him and see that’s he’s studying me. His features seem frozen, tightly controlled. “I just don’t think I’m ready to be close to someone,” I finally say in a rush.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to respond. He just watches me, face tight and still, for a long time. Finally, he lets out a long, shaking breath. “I lost someone,” he says in a terrible clipped voice that doesn’t sound like him. “Someone who I really loved.”

My eyebrows furrow. Why is he telling me this now? “You…lost them?”

“She died.” His jawline is sharp, his expression like ice. “My girlfriend. Skye. She was young when she died. It messed me up pretty bad.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, Will. Jesus. How old were you?”

“It was four years ago. I was eighteen.”

I knew, better than anyone, how much it changes you to lose someone important at that age. I reach across the carpet and take his hand. His fingers are stiff in mine, lifeless. Then he finally relaxes, clutching my hand tight, and when he speaks again, he sounds more like himself.

“What I’m trying to say, Eva, is that I understand broken. I understand feeling like you’re not ready.” He gestures at the phone on the ground, which has finally stopped buzzing with texts. “My entire family is freaking out about me being on a date because it never happens. I never thought I could—” He sucks in another sharp breath.

“Look, I honestly don’t know if I’m ready for this either,” he continues, reaching out to tilt my chin up. He brushes his thumb across my jaw once, and then again, and I can’t stop myself from leaning into the touch, wanting more of it in spite of what just happened. “But I think there’s something here, Eva.”

“What if I can’t?” I whisper. “I told you being close to someone, physically close, that can set me off. So what if we try this and I—”

“Have a flashback?” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Then I’ll give you space until you feel better.”

He makes it sound so simple. But it’s not.

“I just don’t know.”

We sit in silence for a long moment while I try to dredge up some long-buried bravery. I want this to work with him, so badly.

But I can’t see how it ever will. How do you date someone when you can’t even kiss them without panicking?

“I’m not going to pressure you, Eva,” he finally says, his voice tight. “If you don’t think you’re ready…”

I squeeze my eyes shut, so pissed off at myself and this entire situation. At my entire life.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “You don’t need to stress about it.” I open my eyes and see that his expression is guarded. Careful.

“How about we try being friends first?” he asks. “I like spending time with you—”

“I like spending time with you, too,” I say quickly, wanting him to know that this isn’t about him, not even a little bit. It’s all me.