Ugly Love: Chapter 31

I’m trying to listen to Corbin go on about his conversation with Mom, but all I can think about is the fact that Miles is due home any minute now. It’s been ten days since he’s been home, and that’s the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other since the weeks we spent not speaking.

“Have you told Miles yet?” Corbin asks.

“Told him what?”

Corbin faces me. “That you’re moving out.” He points at the potholder on the counter next to me.

I toss him the potholder and shake my head. “I haven’t talked to him since last week. I’ll probably tell him tonight.”

Honestly, I’ve wanted to tell him I found my own apartment all week, but that would involve either calling or texting him, two things we don’t do. The only times we text each other are when we’re both home. I think we do this because it helps us maintain our boundaries.

It’s not like the move is a big deal anyway. I’m only moving a few blocks away. I found an apartment that’s closer to both work and school. It’s definitely no downtown high-rise, but I love it.

I do wonder, though, how it will affect things between Miles and me. I think that’s one of the reasons I haven’t mentioned that I was even looking for my own place. There’s a fear in the back of my mind that not being right across the hall from him will become too inconvenient, and he’ll just call off whatever is going on between us.

Corbin and I both look up as soon as the apartment door opens and there’s a quick knock on it. I glance at Corbin, and he rolls his eyes.

He’s still adapting.

Miles walks into the kitchen, and I see the smile that wants to spread across his face when he sees me, but he keeps it in check when he sees Corbin.

“What are you cooking?” Miles asks him. He leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest, but his eyes are scrolling up my legs. They pause when he sees I’m wearing a skirt, and then he smiles in my direction. Luckily, Corbin is still facing the stove.

“Dinner,” Corbin says with a clipped voice.

He takes a while to adapt.

Miles looks at me again and stares for a few silent seconds. “Hey, Tate,” he says.

I grin. “Hey.”

“How were midterms?” His eyes are everywhere on me but my face.

“Good,” I say.

He mouths, You look pretty.

I smile and wish more than anything that Corbin wasn’t standing here right now, because it’s taking all I have not to throw my arms around Miles and kiss the hell out of him.

Corbin knows why Miles is here. Miles and I just try to respect the fact that Corbin still doesn’t like what’s going on between us, so we keep it behind closed doors.

Miles is chewing on the inside of his cheek, fidgeting with his shirtsleeve, watching me. It’s quiet in the kitchen, and Corbin still hasn’t turned around to acknowledge him. Miles looks like he’s about to burst at the seams.

“Fuck it,” he says, gliding across the kitchen toward me. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me, hard, in front of Corbin.

He’s kissing me.

In front of Corbin.

Don’t analyze this, Tate.

He’s pulling my hands, dragging me out of the kitchen. As far as I know, Corbin is still facing the stove, trying his best to ignore us.

Still adapting.

We get to the living room, and Miles separates his mouth from mine. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else today,” he says. “At all.”

“Me, neither.”

He pulls me by the hand toward the front door. I follow. He opens it, walks to his apartment, and pulls his keys out of his pocket. His luggage is still outside in the hallway.

“Why is your luggage out here?”

Miles pushes open his apartment door. “I haven’t been home yet,” he says. He turns around and grabs his things from the hallway, then holds the door open for me.

“You came to my apartment first?”

He nods, then tosses his duffel bag onto the couch and pushes his suitcase against the wall. “Yep,” he says. He grabs my hand and pulls me to him. “I told you, Tate. Haven’t thought about anything else.” He smiles and lowers his head to kiss me.

I laugh. “Aw, you missed me,” I say teasingly.

He pulls back. You would think I’d just told him I loved him with the way his body tenses up.

“Relax,” I say. “You’re allowed to miss me, Miles. It doesn’t break your rules.”

He backs up a few steps. “You thirsty?” he asks, changing the subject like he always does. He turns and heads toward the kitchen, but everything about him just changed. His demeanor, his smile, his excitement over finally seeing me after ten days.

I stand in the living room and watch it all crumble.

I’m hit by a reality check, but it feels more like a meteor.

This man can’t even admit that he misses me.

I’ve been holding out hope that if I take it slowly enough with him, he’ll eventually break through whatever it is that’s holding him back. The entire past few months, I’ve been under the assumption that maybe he just can’t handle the way things have developed between us and he needs time, but it’s clear now. It’s not him.

It’s me.

I’m the one who can’t handle this thing between us.

“You okay?” Miles says from the kitchen. He walks out from behind the obstructed view of the cabinets so he can see me. He waits for me to answer him, but I can’t.

“Did you miss me, Miles?”

And up comes the armor again, shielding him. He looks away and walks back into the kitchen. “We don’t say things like that, Tate,” he says. The hardness is back in his voice.

Is he serious?

“We don’t?” I take a few steps toward the kitchen. “Miles. It’s a common phrase. It doesn’t mean commitment. It doesn’t even mean love. Friends say it to friends.”

He leans against the bar in the kitchen and calmly looks up at me. “But we were never friends. And I don’t want to break your one and only rule by giving you false hope, so I’m not saying it.”

I can’t explain what happens to me, because I don’t know. But it’s as if every single thing he’s ever said and done that’s hurt me impales me all at once. I want to scream at him. I want to hate him. I want to know what the hell happened that made him capable of saying things that can hurt me more than any other words have ever come close to doing.

I’m tired of treading water.

I’m tired of pretending it’s not killing me to want to know everything about him.

I’m tired of pretending he’s not everywhere. Everything. My only thing.

“What did she do to you?” I whisper.

“Don’t,” he says. The word is a warning. A threat.

I’m so tired of seeing the pain in his eyes and not knowing the reason for it. I’m tired of not knowing what words are off-limits with him.

“Tell me.”

He looks away from me. “Go home, Tate.” He turns around and grips the edge of the counter, dropping his head between his shoulders.

“Fuck you.” I turn and exit the kitchen. When I reach the living room, I hear him coming after me, so I speed up. I make it to the front door and open it, but his palm meets the door above my head, and he slams it shut.

I squeeze my eyes tightly, bracing for whatever words are about to completely slay me, because I know they will.

His face is right next to my ear, and his chest is pressed against my back. “That’s what we’ve been doing, Tate. Fucking. I’ve made that clear from day one.”

I laugh, because I don’t know what else to do. I turn around and look up at him. He doesn’t back away, and he’s so much more intimidating in this moment than I’ve ever seen him be before.

“You think you’ve made that clear?” I ask him. “You are so full of shit, Miles.”

He still doesn’t move, but his jaw tenses. “How have I not been clear? Two rules. Can’t get any simpler than that.”

I laugh incredulously, then get everything off my chest at once. “There’s a huge difference between fucking someone and making love to them. You haven’t fucked me in more than a month. Every time you’re inside me, you’re making love to me. I can see it in the way you look at me. You miss me when we aren’t together. You think about me all the time. You can’t even wait ten seconds to walk in your own front door before coming to see me. So don’t you dare try to tell me you’ve been clear from day one, because you are the murkiest goddamn man I’ve ever met.”

I breathe.

I breathe for the first time in what feels like a month.

He can do what he wants with all that. I’m done trying.

He blows out a steady, controlled breath while he backs several steps away from me. He winces and turns around as if he doesn’t want me to read the emotions that are obviously present somewhere deep within him. His hands grip the back of his neck tightly, and he remains in this position for a solid minute without moving. He begins to blow out steady breath after steady breath, as if he’s doing everything in his power to pull himself together and not cry. My heart begins to ache when I realize what’s happening.

He’s breaking.

“Oh, God,” he whispers. His voice is completely pain-ridden. “What am I doing to you, Tate?”

He walks to the wall and falls against it, then slides to the floor. His knees come up, and he rests his elbows on them, covering his face with his hands to stop his emotions. His shoulders begin to shake, but he’s not making a sound.

He’s crying.

Miles Archer is crying.

It’s the same heart-wrenching cry that came from him the night I met him.

This grown man, this wall of intimidation, this solid veil of armor, he’s completely crumbling right in front of my eyes.

“Miles?” I whisper. My voice is weak compared with his massive silence. I walk to him and lower myself to my knees in front of him. I wrap my arm around his shoulders and lower my head to his.

I don’t ask him what’s wrong again, because now I’m terrified to know.