Page 71 of Maid of Dishonor
“Just talk to me,” he says, not quite hiding the hurt in his eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I give a broken laugh, blinking against the stinging in my eyes. Everything inside me surges forward, and I’m suddenly so, so tired.
“I have feelings for you,” I say. “That’s what’s wrong: I have feelings for you.” His eyes widen, but I go on, because everything hurts, and the only way out is through. “I’m not stupid,” I say with a sigh. “I know I’m not the kind of girl you go for. I’m one of the guys.” The words are bitter on my tongue, and Carter’s hands clench convulsively into fists, his eyes as wide as they’ll go, but he says nothing.
“But it hurts,” I say. “It hurts, and I’m tired. So…I’ll call you.”
Let it be over, I think.Please just let this aching hurt be over.
But Carter doesn’t let it go, and I guess I can’t blame him. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t let it go either.
“Wait,” he says, his voice desperate. His eyes plead with me as he speaks, his arms still outstretched in supplication. “Wait. Please, Sam. Nothing has to change. No matter—” His voice cracks and he breaks off before going on. “No matter your feelings for me, nothing has to change. Feelings change all the time. We can ignore our feelings and stay friends. Everything will be the exact same—”
But everything inside me halts; for just a moment, the world stills on its axis.
“Our—ourfeelings?” I say.
Silence. Then, “What?”
“Our feelings,” I say urgently. “You said ‘we can ignore our feelings.’ Do you—” I swallow. “Do you have feelings for me?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Carter,” I say. “Tell me.”
He fights with himself; I can see it in his eyes, in his clenched fists, in his tense shoulders. “I don’t—I don’t know,” he mutters, his gaze refusing to meet mine.
“Carter,” I say again, pleading this time, because I can tell he’s not giving me a straight answer.
He exhales roughly, shoving one hand through his hair. “Yes, okay?” he says, his voice both tortured and exasperated. His hands clench into fists at his side once more. “Yes. Sometimes I’m positive I don’t ever want to have feelings for anyone, but sometimes…” He trails off, and he steps closer, over the threshold and through the door, kicking it shut behind us. My breath catches in my throat as he takes another step, then another, and another, walking me backward until my lower back hits the kitchenette counter.
His gaze drops to my lips, and I’m gone. I don’t know what’s happening right now. My brain is only possibly still working; I can’t be sure at the moment.
“Sometimes I feel lost, and confused,” he says hoarsely, “and I find myself thinking that if I just kiss you, everything will make sense again.”
I wasn’t aware until this very moment that such exquisite pain and exquisite euphoria could exist within me at the same time, but they can, and they do. Carter’s gaze flits over my face, searching, caressing, even as his hands come to rest on the counter on either side of me. Only in my dreams, in my imagination, has he ever looked at me like this. His gaze is hungry and anticipatory, sending wave after wave of electricity through me as his eyes drop to my lips once more.
“Carter,” I whisper.
I don’t actuallymeanto whisper; it was supposed to be a strong, confident voice. So much for that, I guess.
“Mmm?” he says.
I clear my throat, licking my dry lips. His sharp inhale as his gaze follows the tip of my tongue causes my heart to trip over itself, just like it’s been doing for the last several minutes.
“What are you doing?” I say. My heart and my body are not thrilled that I’m saying this, but don’t worry—my brain is still in charge.
I mean, it’s a close thing. But still.
Carter blinks, and it’s like he’s coming out of a trance. “I don’t—” he says, his eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know. Crap. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry.” He pushes away from the counter like he’s been burned, putting a few feet between us.
I shake my head, feeling disappointment stab into my traitorous heart, which still has the audacity to hope.
“You don’t know what you want, Carter,” I say softly. “You don’t know what you want from love, and you don’t know what you want from me.”
He runs his hand through his hair again, beginning to pace. “Maybe not,” he mutters. Then he shakes his head. “But see, Sam? Look. Nothing has to change. As long as we keep communicating like this”—he gestures between us—“everything can be okay. See?” His eyes are starting to look panicked, and his voice isn’t much better. “And we’ll still be best friends. We’ll still work together and buy houses next to each other with a shared pool and hang out every day.”
“Carter—”
