Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet 2)

She wipes away a tear. “No. I’ve just realized I’m in way too deep with you. At your core, you’re still the same guy from the tour. The Beast from before the snowball fight. I’ve realized I need to slow this thing down before I get myself really, really hurt.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Laila.”

I try to grab her hand, but she yanks it away.

“You already did!” she screams. “I told you about my father! I told you how scary and horrible he was! I asked you not to punch holes in walls or—”

“Oh, God, Laila. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. That was so stupid of me.”

“How could you do that, when I told you how much that kind of thing triggers me?”

I open and close my mouth. But there’s no excuse. No words I could possibly say to make it better.

“You did it to hurt me!” she says. “Plain and simple. So, tell me, Savage, why would I want to be with a man who wants to hurt me?”

My heart feels like it’s physically shattering. I didn’t plan to punch that wall. I didn’t make a conscious decision to do it. But I suppose it’s only fair to say I knew, deep down, somewhere inside me, that punching that wall would scare the shit out of Laila. And I did it, anyway. Did I punch that wall to push her away, to make her leave me now, rather than later, when losing her would wreck me all that much more? Did I subconsciously do it to see if doing the unthinkable would make Laila finally leave me, the same way I did horrible shit at first with Mimi, to see if there was something, anything, that would make her leave me, too? For fuck’s sake, did I set that kitchen fire at my apartment in Phoenix on purpose, like my mother always says I did? Despite everything, despite all the love Mimi has given to me, all the lessons she’s tried to teach me, was it all for nothing because, at my core, I’m my father’s son—and always will be?

“I’m sorry, Laila,” I choke out, my emotions hanging on by a thread. “I’d never harm a hair on your head. I’d die to protect you. I’d do anything for you. But you’re right: punching that hole in the wall was unforgivable.”

Her lower lip trembles. “I don’t feel physically threatened by you, Adrian. But I do think you need some sort of therapy. Anger management, maybe. You made a promise to me and you should have been able to control yourself and keep it.”

I clench my jaw. My knee-jerk reaction is to reply, “Well, if I need therapy, then you do, too, sweetheart, because you’re definitely a few bricks shy of a load.” But, luckily, I’m not stupid enough to give voice to my honest thoughts. My next thought is, “Please forgive me, Laila. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you stay with me. To make you happy. To make you love me.” But those words don’t come out, either.

“For what it’s worth,” I mumble. “I think my brain didn’t connect the promise I made to you at the house to your dressing room. It’s stupid, I know, but I think maybe not being at the house made me forget . . .” I stop talking, based on the incredulity I’m seeing on Laila’s face, and whisper, “Regardless, I made a promise to you and I broke it. I’m sorry.”

Laila holds my gaze for a long beat and then looks out the window on her side of the car at passing traffic, effectively letting me know this conversation is over, and that she emphatically does not forgive me.

I pick up my phone and murmur, “I need to call Mimi, before it gets too late. I’ve missed bedtime the last three nights.” I pause, hoping the mention of Mimi’s name will prompt Laila to tell me if she’s still planning to come to Chicago with me tomorrow. But when Laila doesn’t say a word, but continues silently staring out her side of the car, I add, “While I’m talking to Mimi, I’d appreciate you pretending you still like me. My grandma still thinks we’re blissfully happy and I’d like her to keep thinking it for Christmas—and for however long she’s got.”

Laila looks away from the window, rolling her eyes. “I won’t scream at you or flip you off while you’re speaking to your ailing grandmother, Adrian, if that’s what you think. And you know why? Because I’ve got this weird thing called impulse control. Ask a therapist about it sometime.”

Annoyance floods me. I think, “Yeah, Laila. You’re a paragon of maturity.” But thanks to my impulse control, I don’t say it. After taking a few deep breaths, I press the button to FaceTime my cousin—and the minute Sasha picks up, even before saying hello, she says, “What’s wrong?”