I blinked. "I don't know."
"That's supposed to help. But he seems sadder than ever."
Counseling. He was getting counseling. Why hadn't I known that? Well, naturally, Charlie — the world's most secretive cuss — hadn't wanted me to know. He'd probably thought I'd mock him for it. I wasn'tthatmuch of an asshole, was I? Clearly, he thought I was.
Mr. Davies looked at me and seemed to come to some decision. "You seem like a very nice young man. When Charlie brought you home with him, I had hoped—" He cleared his throat. "That is to say, he's never brought anyone to see us before."
"Really?"
He nodded. "I thought perhaps that meant something. If it doesn't, obviously you need to respect that. But if, on the off chance, it does mean something — that he might change his mind about you in the future — you're going to need a great deal of patience. Charlie has legitimate issues with trust. Anyone pushing past his boundaries — well, it wouldn't be a good idea, for many reasons. But I certainly wouldn't expect you to wait years for him to change his mind. No one could. Perhaps you would be happier if you looked elsewhere for what you need."
That had to be a record of some kind. Two dads, both warning me off for my own good. At least my dad could be expected to put my interests first, not wanting his son dating a so-called 'feral' shifter, but Charlie's father had no excuse to put me ahead of his son.
I scowled at him. "Are you saying I'd have a chance if I waited threemoreyears? Because I'd do it. I'd do it, if there was even a sliver—" I broke off, because my voice was cracking and that was humiliating. I cleared my throat.
"Three years?" Mr. Davies stared at me. "Threemoreyears? How long have you been in love with my son, and why hasn't he ever said anything?"
I cleared my throat again in a desperate attempt to sound normal. "I suppose because he didn't know. I wasn't as clear as I thought I was, sir. That's on me. But him not telling you — why would he? I don't think Charlie believes in telling people anything. He takes 'need to know' to a new height."
Mr. Davies gave me the ghost of a smile. "You're not entirely wrong there, although don't tell him I agreed with you about that."
"Yes, I'm sure he'd think it was disloyal of you."
We gave each other wan smiles. "I have some work to do," said Mr. Davies. "Make yourself at home, of course. If you need anything—" The offer trailed off vaguely, and he gave me another perfunctory smile.
We were both exhausted from the conversation, I suspected. And by Charlie, and his messy life, and the way he didn't fully trust anyone in the world.
It hurt to know he had his reasons for that, and that it might never change. Even if I spent another three years pining and eating my heart out, there was no guarantee he'd ever look at me as anything but the annoying guy he worked with.
That was how my life was going, and I had to be okay with that. But I wasn't, not really. It was going to take a lot of time, and possibly a lot of alcohol, before I could even remotely make peace with the fact that he was probably always going to hate my guts.
#
"I'm going running," Charlie announced.
He was doing stretches, wearing soft blue running shorts and a flimsy white tank top I hadn't seen him in before. I almost swallowed my tongue looking at him. He narrowed his eyes at me as if he thought I was a perv.
"I haven't...seen that outfit before," I managed, trying to sound collected, leaning against the doorframe. It would've been casual if my hand hadn't slipped. Instead, I had to jump quick so I didn't smash into the wall.
He smirked. "That's because I haven't worn it in years. Mom keeps a lot of my old clothes around. I haven't changed sizes in years."
I wanted to say "lucky me" and walk up to him and slide my arms around his waist and pull him into a kiss, but I managed to restrain myself. That was what you did in a relationship — not with someone who hated your guts.
"You can tag along if you want," he said, waving a hand at me. "Go shift or something. You can't go like that." He winkled his nose up at my clothes.
"What's wrong with skinny jeans?"
"For running? Go away."
"Wait." I grabbed hold of the doorframe, one hand on either side to steady myself. Before I got caught up in sparring with him, I needed to say this, and I needed to say it right. "I have to tell you something."
He raised one unimpressed eyebrow. "Oh? Did my dad threaten you or something?"
"Well, yes, but that's not... What I mean to say is, I'm sorry."
He stopped stretching, and his eyes widened. He didn't say anything, but his expression read,What? You?
I swallowed hard. "I'm sorry I've been so pushy. About Singh. About us. You were right — I should've let you know what I wanted sooner. I could've been a hell of a lot clearer instead of eating my heart out and snarking about who you like."
