Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,100
About everything.”
His eyes fall to the ground. A second later they find me again.
“Remember when I sat with you while you took a bath? I almost told you then, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I had you next to me. Finally. I didn’t want to screw it all up by mentioning my ex, who I don’t care about.”
I recall how long he sat in silence before telling me about his failed eighth birthday party. He’s right. I would have been angry had he told me in that moment.
“I forgot about her, about everything else. Except you.”
His words are low and loaded with feeling. They make me ache with want.
I yank myself back to the present conversation. “What do you mean that you forgot about telling me once you got to know me better? In those first months, you never said a word to me unless it had to do with work, and even then our interaction was minimal. You spoke to me directly maybe a handful of times when we first started working together.”
His chest heaves with a raspy breath before answering. “I noticed the way you talked to people. The way you interacted with them. You were tough with most. You were sweet and kind with a few. I eavesdropped a lot.”
“How? Your earbuds were glued to your ears for the first six months you were at Nuts & Bolts. Or you would always shut your door.”
“The walls in that place are cracker thin, and our offices are less than three feet from each other. And I never shut my door all the way. I could hear almost everything.” He half smiles, then covers his mouth with his hand, wiping it away. “Whenever you would talk to someone or answer your phone, I turned off my music. I liked listening to you. You were so funny. Very sarcastic. You gave people a hard time whenever they deserved it. I loved what a ballbuster you were.”
He tugs on each rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. My eyes skim over the thick, veiny lines and blond hair dotting his forearm.
“That’s when things started to change. I was dying to get to know you, but I didn’t know how to recover. I figured you wouldn’t give me another chance, even if I explained my reason for blowing you off initially. I was embarrassed, and I didn’t know how to approach you. It seemed like saying ‘I’m sorry’ wouldn’t have been enough.”
As soon as he finishes speaking, his eyes fall to the floor. He’s clearly mortified to admit this to me. His explanation makes sense, and ultimately, I understand his reasons. Hearing his words though would mean everything.
“It would be enough now.”
“I’m so sorry.” He steps toward me. “For what I did tonight, for being a jerk to you when we first met.”
I remain still.
“I’m sorry for being a jealous psycho when I saw you with Jamie.”
He comes another step closer. My lips tremble, and my eyes water.
“I’m sorry for the hurt I caused you.”
He fixes his gaze on me. I swallow, keeping the tears behind my eyes. Another step and we’re inches apart. I can feel it in my bones that he means it. The pained way he speaks, the affection, sorrow, and hope in his eyes. Every blink is a beg for forgiveness.
“Emmie. I am so, so sorry.”
“Okay,” I finally say.
We’re so close his chest almost touches mine. I want nothing more than to give in and rest my head on his shoulder.
The tears finally fall, and his hand finds my cheek. “Let me hold you. Please?”
His words combined with his gentle touch seal the open wound between us. When I nuzzle into his chest, it’s an acceptance of his apology. I need this just as much as he does.
Despite the heaven of this hug, remaining doubts nag at me. I breathe deeply and take a step back from him.
“If we had to go through all this just to get you to be open with me—your girlfriend—this can’t work.” I motion between us with my arm.
He hesitates, his face twisting. I pause to steady myself. The thought of this being the end kills me, but it’s the only option if we can’t communicate honestly. Tears pool at the waterlines of my eyes, and I wonder how long it will be before I start crying again.
“If this can’t work, I can’t go back to normal,” I say. “I can’t see you every day at work if I have to pretend