“Get out of the car.” Henley takes my hand. “Please.”

“Damn it, Henley,” I snap in frustration. “You don’t love me.”

“Who says?” he spits angrily.

I roll my lips, unimpressed.

“I’m trying to get better for you,” he blurts out in a rush. “I swear I am.”

Fuck . . .

What do I do?

“You should”—Joel rolls his eyes, sensing that our date is over before it began—“go . . .”

“Joel . . .” I look over to him. “We are not together.”

“We are together,” Henley interrupts. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Who hasn’t realized it yet, fucker?

“Henley, god damn it!” I snap. “Get into the house now.”

“Are you coming?”

“Yes, I’m fucking coming,” I snap. “I have never known a more infuriating man than you.”

He stands his ground.

“Now.” I point to the house.

He walks over and stands on the curb and folds his arms, defiantly waiting for me.

“I’m so sorry, Joel.” I sigh. “This is unacceptable.”

“I knew he liked you.” We both look over to Henley as he stares back at us through the windshield. “I didn’t know he loved you.”

I let out a deep breath. I’m not even excited by this revelation. In fact, I’m pissed. “I’ll call you through the week?”

“Okay.” He starts the car.

I walk past Henley and into his house. He follows me with his tail between his legs.

I’m so pissed that I can’t even bring myself to say one word to him—not one fucking word.

I sit onto the couch. He tentatively sits down beside me.

“Start talking,” I say.

“Well, firstly . . . I want to apologize. I’ve been out of line.” He pauses as if collecting his thoughts.

You think?

“My behavior last night was just . . . terrible,” he continues. “I didn’t mean any of it. I don’t know what came over me, and I don’t know why I acted like that.”

“Like what? Aggressive and abusive?”

His gaze drops to the floor.

Silence . . .

My heart sinks.

Why do I feel bad for upsetting him?

“Why do you act like this?” I ask him.

“I don’t know . . . ,” he whispers. “It’s like . . . my feelings for you bring out the darkest part of my personality.”

What?

What do you even say to that?

“You said you were trying to get better?” I eventually ask.

“I am,” he says hopefully. “I go twice a week, and Aaron says I’m making progress.”

“Aaron?”

“The psychologist.”

“Making progress with what?”

He hesitates . . .

“Hen.” I look him square in the eye. “Now is the time for honesty,” I say softly. “You at least owe me that.”

He nods. “I . . .” He licks his bottom lip. “I know.” He wrings his hands nervously on his lap. “The thing is . . . and there is no easy way to say this, but . . . I’m fucked up.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“How so?”

He continues to twist his hands together on his lap . . .

“Hen?”

“Well, I always thought I was like this because I hadn’t found the right woman and I’m happy on my own. It’s never bothered me.”

Where is this going?

“Right . . .”

“But then I met you, and I wanted more, but . . .” His voice trails off.

“But what?”

“But I couldn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Commit to a relationship.”

I frown. “But you committed to a friends-with-benefits situation with no problem.”

“I did.” He takes my hand in his. “Because it killed two birds with one stone.”

“What birds?”

“I got to spend time with you without weirding out.”

“Weirding out?” I repeat.

He shrugs, embarrassed. “I’m totally fucking weird. Don’t worry, I am well aware.”

I fight to hide my smile. You got that right.

“What does your psychologist say about this?”

“Aaron thinks that my mind is trying to protect me, so it blocks my emotions.”

I frown, not understanding. “Why?”

“I don’t understand it myself.”

“So you don’t have any emotions?”

“No, I do.” He shrugs. “With you, I do.”

“And what are those emotions?” I ask.

He frowns as if perplexed. “Love is a strong word.”

“It is.”

“So . . .” He pauses as if choosing his words very carefully. “You say you loved me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What does that feel like?”

“What?”

“If you love someone, what does it feel like?” He continues. “I mean, when do you get that light bulb I’m-in-love moment?”

I smile at his immaturity on this subject. “It’s not one light bulb moment. It’s a million little things.”

His eyes hold mine as he listens.

“It’s looking forward to seeing someone. It’s thinking about them all day. It’s missing them when they go home, even though you’ve just seen them all night. It’s laughing and conversations and sexual attraction, and most of all it’s a sense of belonging to that person.”

“Belonging to that person?”

“Like you don’t want to sleep with anyone else, you only want one person, and nobody else will do. The thought of giving your body to someone else is sickening.”

He nods as if finally understanding.

I wait for him to elaborate on the subject, but he remains silent.

“Well?” I ask. “Any of that sound familiar?”

He swallows the lump in his throat as if bracing himself for the worst thing possible. “Maybe . . . I do . . . somehow—I mean, I don’t know, but I think I . . . love you.” He stares at the ground, unable to make eye contact.

Empathy fills me at his botched-up declaration of love.

“And that’s a bad thing?” I whisper.

“No, I think it’s a . . . good thing.” He rolls his lips. “It’s just brought up a lot of baggage for me.”

“What kind of baggage?”

He hesitates before answering. “I struggle with intimacy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

But he does know.

“What does Aaron say the reason is?”

He stares at me as if processing the question. “That I won’t rely on anyone as a form of protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“If you leave me.”

Oh . . .

My heart . . .

“Hen,” I whisper softly.

“But I don’t think that’s true. I mean . . . big deal. My mother died. A million people’s mothers die every day, and they don’t walk around fucked up like this.”

“Henley, on our first date you told me that your mother dying was a catastrophic event in your life.” I squeeze his hand in mine. “Don’t play it down. Grief affects everyone differently. You were at a very vulnerable age when she died.”

His eyes fill with tears as he stares at a spot on the carpet, unable to bring himself to look at me.

He is fucked up.