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I want to kick myself when pain flickers across her face again. I don't know why it bothers me to see her upset, just that it does. “I'm sorry.”

When she looks down at her shoes, I say, “My favorite color is green because it's the color of money. I have a five-inch scar on the back of my head that's covered by my hair. And I can add, multiply, and divide a set of numbers in my head quicker than it takes most people to process a solitary sentence.”

She freezes. “What's 5,528 times 6,623?”

I blink. “36,611,944.”

She pulls out her phone. “Divide that number by 26,500.”

“1,381.” I hold up a finger. “.58279245283.”

She looks down. “Holy shit, you're like Rain Man.”

I straighten my spine, feeling a weird combination of vulnerable and defensive. “Contrary to what some of my doctors first thought when my teachers insisted that my parents have me checked out, I'm not mentally challenged and I'm not on the Autism spectrum.”

I look away, hating how candid I'm being. This entire conversation is stupid and I detest that I can't seem to keep my mouth shut around her. “No one knows why I have Hypercalculia, just that I do.”

I keep the fact that one doctor suspected a brain injury from some kind of childhood trauma to myself. Besides, my father covered his ass when he said that I might have taken a few accidental hits to the head because I grew up playing football with him and my older brother. Hence the scar.

His declaration couldn't have been further from the truth though. I hate the sport and the only time I don't is when I'm making money off it.

Chalk it up to just one more reason I'm a disappointment to Mr. Spencer Holden, former NFL quarterback turned powerful investor and NFL football team owner.

Also known as the man who abused me for years.

My own personal monster under the bed.

“It's really not a big deal. Aside from it being useful in math class and when I play a game of blackjack, it serves no purpose.”

“I think it's kind of cool,” she interjects. “Heck, I'd be charging people to ask me math problems.”

“I'm not a freak show,” I bark, harsher than I intended.

Her eyes widen. “Whoa, I never said you were.” When I don't respond, she shifts uncomfortably. “Why do you have a scar?”

“Why did your grandmother lock you up in a basement?”

Her lips purse. “Maybe we should rock—paper—scissor it.”

“Not go

To my sheer surprise, she laughs. “Well, just so you know, I'm choosing scissors. Given I'm a lesbian and all.”

I rear back slightly, too enthralled to be crestfallen at her confession. “Tou-fucking-ché, angry girl. I was going to make some lame joke about being harder than a rock, but bravo.”

“Thank you,” she says, taking a mock bow. “Now in exchange for me one-upping your perverted ass, tell me something you've never told anyone else before.”

“My—” I stall, considering my next statement carefully. I had no intention of telling her, but now I find myself wanting to. And technically I've never told anyone about it, so I suppose it qualifies. “My father is the reason for my scar.”

She frowns. “What happened?”

“One day when my older brother Asher was nine and I was seven—” Her face scrunches at the mention of his name, but I continue. “Asher said he was too tired to go to football practice, and my dad went postal. He grabbed his head and kept ramming it into the coffee table. Asher's eye was inching closer to the corner of it with every hit and I knew I had to do something, so I moved it away. Unfortunately, I wasn't strong enough to move it entirely and it still ended up hurting him, but fortunately, it missed his eye.”

A lump fills my throat. “Later that night after Asher was all stitched up and everyone went to sleep...my father dragged me out of bed and did the same thing to me. Only he slammed the back of my head into the corner of the table repeatedly, even after I started bleeding all over the carpet. He told me he would stop if I apologized for getting involved, but I refused. He was hurting my brother and I wanted to protect him. To this day, I still remember the way the wood pounded my skull over and over while I cried. I'd never felt something so painful before.”

Except what came after.

Affliction crosses over her pretty face and she trembles. “Oh my God, Preston. That's horrible. No one ever suspected anything? Not that it's your fault, but you never told anyone? A teacher? School nurse?”

I shake my head. “I couldn't.”

“Why?”

I look at her and our gazes clash. “Probably for the same reasons you never told anyone about your grandmother locking you in a basement.”

There's a moment between us then, and even though no words are exchanged, I don't think I've ever seen someone as clearly as I see her.

“My father is an ex NFL quarterback turned sports team owner and investor. He has the money to get away with just about anything.”

She breaks eye contact. “There's nothing worse than when a person makes you feel powerless and you can't tell a soul about it.”

“No, there isn't.”

She brushes a strand of hair away from her face. “I—uh. I've fallen in love with approximately forty-nine people since I was fifteen.”

My brain rapidly concludes it's almost ten people a year, but I ignore that because I'm a little taken back by her confession. Or rather, why she's telling me this. “I don't—”

“All of them were women.” Her expression shuts down. “It's why she punished me...she hates that I'm gay.”

Those hazel eyes bore into me and I feel the impact right down to my marrow. “I'm gay, Preston,” she says, her voice cracking.

And just like that, I get the reason behind her confession now. I told her earlier that I didn't care enough to earn her trust, but she's given it anyway.

It doesn't matter that I already presumed she was a lesbian because of the Becca situation and the joke she made. She's still giving me her truth in the rawest sense of the word.

She's coming out to me...and silently asking for my acceptance.

She has it.

My brother Asher once told me there's a world of difference between people assuming or even knowing that he's bisexual...and actually confiding in someone that he is.

I don't think I ever really got that until now.

Tears are streaming down her cheeks and I have to restrain myself from walking over and wiping them away.

“I want so badly to be what she wants me to be, but I can't.” She wipes her tears with the back of her hand. “I keep thinking that maybe if I was, then I'd—”

She gives her head a slight shake as if dismissing the thought entirely, but I press on. “Then you'd what?”

She wraps her arms around herself. “Then I'd know what it feels like to be loved by someone again...because I'm starting to forget.”

The distance between us tightens and something deep inside my chest dislodges. I have every reason not to like her, and yet, seeing her so upset like this is the equivalent of someone turning down the sun. The world feels a little colder and a lot less bright when she cries.

“You don't want to be loved by someone like her.” I wait for her to look at me and then I continue. “You deserve more than a love based on contingencies. You, Kit Bishop, deserve the real fucking deal. The best kind of love. The constant, unwavering, selfless, for better or worse, never goes away and they'd do anything to see you smile kind of love. And one day, someone is going to come along and give it to you in spades. They're go