17“I feel like I should hate you . . . but that doesn’t feel quite right either. It’s confusing . . . feels contradictory,” I say to Gideon. He’s sitting at a pub table, across from me. Cool as usual. Reserved. Unreadable. My heart is hammering riotously in my chest. My eyes are locked on his face. I want to look away, but I can’t. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unnerving to me just how much I don’t want to look away. The room is dripping with tension.
“Because of the circumstances?” he asks me.
Oh, how I love the way his lips wrap around words, how his jaw is always shadowed, how his brow is always creased when looking so intent.
I nod. What are we even talking about? I’ve lost the trail of the conversation.
“Understandable,” he responds.
“Is it?” I ask. I’m perched on the edge of my chair
