Page 153 of Twisted Needs

Everything in my body goes still. My vision blurs so suddenly it takes me a second to realize why.

Oh, God.

I did that to him.

The words sit there on the page while something inside me caves inward all at once. I understand everything now…I’ve never understood anything more clearly than I do this. I thought he was emotionally dependent on me….that I was helping him by trying to keep some amount of distance between us. But he was heartbroken. That’s what this was. For years. And I kept accidentally reopening the wound over and over again because I was too scared to admit what I felt for him.

A horrible tightness climbs into my throat.

The monster I’m reading about is me.

I lower the pages shakily into my lap.

“Parker?” He sounds like he’s already preparing himself for me to regret reading it.

“You thought I hated you?” I ask quietly.

Anders’ entire face crumples immediately. “No,” he says quickly. “No, Parker, I didn’t⁠—”

“No.” I shake my head. “You wrote that I looked at you like I regretted you.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “Oh my God,” I whisper. I press the heel of my hands hard against my eyes while my chest starts shaking.

“Parker,” Anders says softly. “Hey. Lovie, you’re okay.”

A broken sound leaves my throat before I can stop it. Then suddenly Anders is moving toward me carefully, like he’s approaching something fragile enough to spook if he moves too fast. The couch dips beneath his weight beside me before his hand settles gently against the back of my neck.

I do that, too. When I comfort him…that’s what I do.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“No, it isn’t.” I shake my head hard. “You were having panic attacks,” I say hoarsely. “You were writing about not wanting to wake up some mornings and I was just standing there pretending everything was fine.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve.” The answer comes immediately. I should have. I should’ve looked closer instead of hiding behind technicalities and self-control and all the other bullshit excuses I used to justify keeping Anders at arm’s length emotionally while still taking everything he gave me.

My breathing turns embarrassingly uneven. Anders’ fingers slide slowly into my hair. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says quietly. Even now he’s trying to protect me from this. He’s helping me in the same way I thought I was helping him, and now I’ve had to use Anders as a vessel to finally understand just how badly I’ve treated him.

I finally look over at him fully, and the expression on his face nearly undoes me completely. There’s no accusation there or any bitterness. Just this awful tenderness that makes my chest ache so badly I almost can’t stand it.

“I have always loved you,” he says softly, like it explains everything. “What else was I supposed to do with it?”

No. My eyes burn immediately. I reach for him before I can think too hard about it, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him against me hard enough that he nearly falls into my chest. Then I bury my face against his shoulder. And for the first time in years, I let somebody else be the one holding me together as tears fall down my face.

“I’m probably the stupidest person alive,” I murmur into his hair.

Anders lets out a quiet laugh against my chest. We’re tangled together beneath the blankets, his head tucked beneath my chin and my arm wrapped around his waist. Every now and then my fingers drift through his hair because I can’t seem to stop touching him. Maybe it’s because I spent so many years trying not to.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he agrees softly.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“Maybe not.” I feel his smile against my skin. “It’s a good thing you’re stuck with me.”

A laugh slips out of me then. My throat still feels raw from crying, and I hate that he had to see me like that, but I don’t have the energy to be embarrassed anymore.

The manuscript is still sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. I keep thinking about it. Not the writing itself, although it’s incredible. Not the publishing opportunity, either.

I spent so much time trying to manage it that I never stopped to ask what it actually felt like from his side. Now I know. The worst part isn’t realizing how much he loved me. I think some part of me always knew that. The worst part is realizing how lonely he was while he loved me. I spent years telling myself that distance was the responsible choice, but reading that manuscript felt like discovering that every step backwards I took left him standing there alone.