How My Brother's Best Friend Stole Christmas - Molly O'Keefe Page 0,47

told me.”

I rolled over onto my side, facing him, tracing the arch of his nose and his forehead with my eyes.

“That’s why you did the meditation room and the running thing?” he asked.

“I heard it helped.” I shrugged, and to my surprise he rolled over to face me, too, one arm under his head, the other stretched out along his body. I curled my knees up toward my chest and he lifted his knee to touch my toes and that third lock on my heart, the last lock, my very last lock, it shook.

“Heard that, did you?” he asked.

“I did some reading.”

“Of course you did.” He stroked my hair off my forehead with the flat of his hand. “And there’s a lot of stuff that goes on with the PTSD. But I have brain damage from the concussion and they don’t know when or if it will go away.”

“What…what does the brain damage do?”

“It can…fuck up how I feel. Someone can touch me, and even if I know it should feel good, some wire gets crossed and it’s like my skin is trying to crawl off my body.”

I shifted away but he put his hand down on my knee. “And sometimes, with the PTSD and a shortened temper, I don’t handle it well.”

Every word was pulled from his lungs. I could hear it. Feel it.

“And I just thought you deserved to be with someone who felt what they were supposed to feel when you touched them.”

“I think I know what I deserve.”

“Someone who could take off their shirt and not feel like a freak,” he said, not listening.

“Those are your words. Not mine.”

“Who could be…easy with you.”

“I happen to like difficult,” I said.

“I don’t want to be difficult.”

“Stop. You’re not…difficult. You’re not. You’re not damaged-“

“Sophie.” He said my name like a scold.

“Not to me. Not to Wes. Your mom. The people at the company. To us you’re not damaged.” I expected him to argue but he only took a deep breath that shuddered and I realized how heavy that thought have been weighing on him. How badly he needed someone to come along and contradict it. “You’re the most thoughtful person I know, Sam. You always have been. I don’t know anyone who looks after people like you do. People you love. And who love you, but also total strangers. You’ve sacrificed so much to do it for people you’ll never even meet. I think maybe… you can let us take care of you a little bit. Help you, when you need it.”

“You do help me,” he said.

“I’m not talking about blow jobs.”

“I’m not either,” he said. “You think I don’t know everything you do for me?”

Of course he knew. He was the kind of guy who noticed everything. “How long have you known about my feelings for you?”

His smile was sweet and fleeting. “A while.”

“That’s why you pushed me away at the party.”

“You looked beautiful at that party. I’ve never regretted saying something more than I regret not telling you that.”

“Do you trust me?” I asked. Because really this was what it came down to in the end. We could go on and on about friendship and loyalty and helping each other when we needed it but if he wasn’t ever going to trust me, we were done. Right now. “Really trust me. Not just to be good to you. But to know my own limits and boundaries and be good to myself.”

“Yeah. I trust you.”

“Then you trust me to know what I deserve.”

He laughed. “I see what you did there. You’re so clever, Soph.”

“I am,” I said with a smile. “Do you love me?”

“So much.”

I poked him in the chest. “That’s what I deserve. Someone who loves me. It’s what you deserve too.”

He was silent and I could feel how he still wanted to argue with me. The war was still happening in his head. His heart. “Does it happen all the time?” I asked. “Feeling the wrong thing when people touch you.”

He shook his head.

“Can I touch you now?” I whispered, and he sighed.

“That’s another thing I didn’t want for you,” he said. “Asking permission to touch the guy you’re with. It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know, consent is sexy.” He laughed a little when I said it, which was the point. “Can I?”

“Yeah.”

I stroked his hair back from his forehead, watching his face for a flinch. Watching to see if he was hiding it. “I’m not scared of you,” I whispered. “Are you scared of me?”

“So much. I