Chapter 37

                                    

                                          
Chapter 37
Though I had my doubts, Ryan's hot tub solution proved itself to be effective. By the time we made it back to our bed, our bodies were full of slumber, and we passed out with our limbs entangled.
The sleep was blissful, until the uncomfortable sensation of thirst woke me up around six am.
Ryan is still asleep, but I could only ignore the dryness in my throat for so long. 
Untangling from his grip, I sit upright and rub my eyes, before making a stealthy getaway to the kitchen downstairs. 
It's still dark outside. The sun is expected to rise in another hour or so. And due to the melody of snores that fill the spacious cabin, I'm shocked when I notice somebody else in the kitchen.
Though they're not facing me, it doesn't take long for me to identify them. 
Alexander's shirtless back glistens in the dim lighting, as he brings a cup to his mouth and takes a sip.
I swallow, frozen in place. Our interaction from earlier is still fresh in my memory. A good portion of my anger has vanished—courtesy of Ryan fucking it out of me—but still, some of it lingers when I remember his crazy allegations.
I don't even know how long I was standing for, but my gaze must be tangible, because Alex turns around shortly after. 
His expression displays a morsel of shock,  before returning to a neutral state. That's when I take the opportunity to join him by the counter. 
There's this awkwardness in the atmosphere...the cringe worthy kind. I almost turn back around. 
Alexander doesn't look at me.  Instead, he grabs another glass from the counter, fills it with water, and slides it towards me. A silent truce, it seems.
I accept.
Not because I'm not still angry.
Because I'm thirsty as hell. 
We sip our drinks in silence, as I contemplate the least awkward way to make my departure. 
"I'm sorry," he mutters, shattering the silence I thought we mutually agreed on. I almost wish he continued his cold front, because I am in no shape prepared for this conversation right now. 
"It's fine."
"It's not." He finally faces me. "To clarify, I'm not apologizing for caring about you—I'll never apologize for that—but I admit that I have been overstepping lately. Unintentionally, but I doubt that matters much."
The words tumble from his mouth in a way that lets me know they've not been rehearsed. And he wears this expression of hesitation, frequently looking at me, then at the ceiling, then back at me.
"I'm going to say something," he inhales deeply, "and I'm going to need you to not say anything until I'm finished."
"Uhhh, okay."
"Cool," he nods, steadying himself nervously against the countertop. My stomach clenches.
"My father was a drunk, abusive asshole who I'd spent most of my childhood watching lay hands on my mother. Because of that, I tend to be a little sensitive towards relationships with dynamics like yours...the quiet girl with the overly possessive guy....not saying it's a bad dynamic! What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry for projecting my shitty childhood on you." 
He takes a breath.
"Also, I have feelings for you, Alex. Not subtle ones either. Ones that I feel everywhere. And it's been infuriating having to be cool about them...having to watch you with him." He swallows.