Conventionally Yours (True Colors 1)

“Love. I’m falling in love with you, Con. And I wanted you to win. Which you did. And I figured you’d be happy about that, not doubting my every move.”

“You don’t love me. You can’t.”

“Because you don’t think I’m capable of it?” Now it was my turn to be horrified. This. This was why I’d given up on the chance of finding something like what we had. I’d worried that what I had to offer might not be enough, and apparently, it wasn’t. Bile rose in my throat. “Because of who I am?”

“No, because of who I am.” He studied hopelessly scuffed and worn sneakers. “I’m not worth it, Alden.”

Through my own hurt, I looked at him, really looked at him. I’d worried once that maybe I wasn’t getting the real Conrad, but in his eyes I saw the sensitive, caring guy I’d come to know. And I also saw for the first time what he hadn’t let me see before, how behind all his swagger and cockiness was this deep insecurity, a lack of faith in himself. And that same lack of faith was keeping him from believing in me, believing in us.

“You are.” I grabbed his hand. Squeezed. He didn’t squeeze back. “Why won’t you believe me?” Frustrated, I dropped his limp hand. “You told me we’d deal, no matter what. You told me to play my best game.”

“That was before it actually happened. I thought you’d win. Figured you’d win, see what a loser I really am, and be done with me. I said all those things hoping you might let me stick around some after you won.”

“Well, too bad. That’s not what happened. I’m not done with you. I told you. I think I lo—”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand, voice a pained whisper. “I wish I could believe you.”

“Conrad—” I reached for him, but he sidestepped me.

“Don’t. Just don’t. I need… Hell, I don’t know what I need. To think.”

“You have to play in that final.” It hadn’t escaped my notice that he hadn’t said he loved me back, but my more pressing concern was making sure he didn’t throw away his chance out of fear. It didn’t matter what he thought about me. What mattered to me was that he win—that he prove to himself that it had been him all along doing the winning. Not the card he’d scored. Not my tips. Him. I needed him to reach his goals, even if that meant losing him for good.

But before I could tell him any of that, he did the worst thing he could.

He walked away.

Chapter Thirty-One

Conrad

Even as I raced away from the tournament part of the convention center, I didn’t know why I was freaking out. In fact, if anyone were to ask me which of the two of us was more likely to panic following the semifinal, I would have put all the money on Alden. I’d figured he’d win, freak out, I’d reassure him, then fall apart myself privately and never need to let him know what a mess I really was. I hadn’t thrown the game both because I’d promised him I wouldn’t, but also—and more importantly—I hadn’t thought I’d need to. He’d answer my every move. It had been almost fun, putting out stuff, seeing how he’d defeat it. He always did. Always just that one card ahead of me.

I passed a bank of displays that showed the second semifinal was still ongoing. But I didn’t slow down, passing several panels, the food court, winding through the vendor and artist areas, not taking the time to notice any of the merch, everything and everyone blurring together as I flashed through the game again in my head.

I’d given him a good game, getting caught up in it, getting more competitive than I’d meant to, but I’d still expected him to win right up until the very last move. And then I’d freaked out. Because I’d wanted him to win. I couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment that had changed over the last few days, when I’d gone from desperately wanting myself to win at all costs, to wanting to win if it didn’t mean hurting him in the process, to wanting him to win because I knew it would make him happy and making him happy was the most important thing in the world to me.

But then he’d smiled. Alden, who’d smiled more in the last few days but who was still hardly what one would call jolly, had grinned. Like a lottery winner almost. He’d lost the game and been downright giddy about that fact. And I’d lost whatever cool I’d managed to cling to. How could he be so happy to lose?

He had to have thrown it. No other possible conclusion, except he’d seemed genuinely gutted when I’d accused him of losing on purpose.