Page 76 of Your Pace Or Mine

He smiles sadly. “I had a whole song ready, a whole grand gesture, but I’m a terrible singer and I can’t dance and you probably don’t want the neighbors or your sister to see this mess. So maybe we can just talk?”

I arch my eyebrow and gesture to Samantha. “Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “We want to hear the song first.”

Sebastian groans and pulls out his phone, and soon Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” is blasting at full volume. He tries gamely to sing along, even shuffling around in an attempt to dance. I can see my sister is dying to laugh, but she’s holding on to her expression of dignified rage. I can’t help smiling a little. After a minute or so, I put him out of his misery.

“Okay, I’ve seen enough. I didn’t think you knew a single Cher song, Bash.”

He blushes even harder. “I might have spent a lot of time reading lists online like songs to say you’re sorry and songs about regret. It was this or Phil Collins, but I’ve got a whole playlist.”

The idea of Sebastian listening to a bunch of cheesy apology songs is endearing, but I’m not ready to let him back into my heart yet. “Well, I’m disappointed you didn’t wear fishnets or bring a shipload of sailors, but it’ll do.”

“How do you know I don’t have fishnets on under my jeans?” He raises his eyebrows, and I let out a snort of laughter.

Dammit, how does this guy manage to make me laugh even when I’m still angry at him? Also, the mental image of him in fishnets is unexpectedly hot, and I don’t want to unpack that right now.

“I guess you can come in.”

My sister gives me a skeptical look, but it’s my decision.

“Sam, if you need to go to work, I’m okay. I’ll text you later.”

“You better.” She glares at Sebastian, then reaches to give me a hug. “Don’t let him walk all over you.”

We step into the house, and I give him another once-over. I don’t want to give him an inch, but I can’t undo my mom’s conditioning of how to treat guests, even if said guest is an ass who broke my heart. “Do you want some lasagna or something? You look like death. Have you eaten or slept?”

He scrunches up his face like he can’t remember. “I had coffee and a blueberry muffin. That was a few hours ago.”

I sigh and lead him into the kitchen to heat up a plate. He’s generally a much healthier eater than me, so if he’s binging on sugary muffins, he’s not okay. I don’t want him to be okay because I’m a mess, but I can’t stifle the ingrained urge to feed him.

“So, talk to me,” I say while the food heats up.

He sinks down into one of the kitchen chairs and puts his head in his hands. “Ashley, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m so bad at this.”

I sit down next to him but stay silent. It tears me up to see him like this, but I won’t give him an out from expressing his feelings, no matter how hard it is for him. I need to know what he wants from me.

He takes my hands in his and this time, I don’t pull away. Then he looks me in the eye and speaks, haltingly but with anguish breaking his voice.

“You were right. I lied to you and to myself. I’ve been so afraid of becoming like my dad that I kept people at arm’s length, and I guess I became like him anyway. I told myself that I wasn’t breaking any hearts like him because I didn’t make commitments, but in reality, I didn’t think about anyone else’s emotions except my own. I convinced myself there wasn’t anything real between us because it helped me believe I wouldn’t hurt you that way. But it was a lie, and I hurt you anyway.”

Tears sting at the memory of his cold words. “You hurt me a lot, Sebastian. You made me feel used.”

He also looks close to crying, which I’ve never seen before except that first night we hooked up, after his dad’s wedding. He never lets himself be vulnerable with anyone, not even himself. “I messed up, and I wish I could take it all back. Of course I have feelings for you, and it’s fucking terrifying to have emotions like this. I don’t know how to handle how much I love you.”

The world stops spinning on its axis. My heart explodes into a million pieces. Sebastian loves me. I want to jump up and down, but I don’t know what this means for us. I vaguely hear the microwave beep and filter it out.

“You love me?” I whisper. This answers some of my questions, but it creates a million new ones.

“I love you,” he grins. He pulls me in to kiss me, but I stiffen.

“What does this mean? What are we doing? You appear here all of a sudden saying you love me, but you’re terrified about it. So excuse me if I’m not exactly sure what to do with that information,”

He leans back and lets out a long breath. “Firstly, I’m going to work on my shit. I’ll probably find a therapist. I haven’t figured out exactly how, but I know this stuff goes deep, and neither love nor admitting what a mess I am is going to fix it.”

I let out a sigh of relief at hearing he’s not going to rely on me to magically fix him, because that’s a losing game. “That’s good. I’m glad. But what happens with you and me?”

He looks into my eyes with an expression of raw vulnerability and fear. “I want us to be together—really together—but I don’t know how these things work. I don’t know what people do when they love each other. Do we just become a couple? Do we, like, share our calendar apps or something? Look at couches? Is that what you want?”

I try to hold back the laugh that bubbles up at his cluelessness. “I think furniture shopping is a bit premature.”