It’s not really a decision, as much as a self-discovery, when I realize I’m in love with him. I probably always have been. It’s scary for me, but mostly because I still don’t want that for him. I want better for him.
“You think you like me now, because you get to save me,” I tell him. “It won’t always be this way.”
We’re in my room. He drove me home in the Porsche, and I didn’t say a word the entire time. Now we’re on my bed, sitting up, separated by a few feet and, until I said that, silence.
(I finally stopped crying, by the way.)
“Oh, shut up,” he says, harshly enough to make me flinch. “Riles, you’re right—I like helping people. But that’s not how it is with you.”
“So you don’t want to save me?”
“Of course, I do. I hate seeing you this way. But it’s not why I like you.” He frowns
