Free Unbound: (InterMix) by Cara McKenna

energy and resources into uninvited
     houseguests. Winter was on its way. He must have a million things to do. And three
     hundred books to read.
    Too bad. She’d have liked to have gotten to know him better. He was easily the most
     interesting person she’d met in years.
    * * *
    Rob grabbed a washcloth and a bar of soap from a shelf by the back door, tossed them
     and the towel and the shirt in a big metal basin, and hugged it to his chest as he
     exited. Usually he bathed in the morning—more bracing than a coffee—but he felt the
     urge now. Plus . . . He was avoiding Merry again. And she could probably guess as
     much.
    Just a quick wash. You’ll have all evening to fumble through awkward conversations.
    Were they so awkward, though? The strange thing was, he was beginning to rather enjoy
     the woman’s company. But it had been so long, and he was so thoroughly shit at socializing . . .
     The urge to run away kept trumping the draw of human interaction.
    But one thing had become perfectly clear today.
    He was lonely.
    Frowning at the realization, he dropped the basin before the pump. He constructed
     his usual pyramid on a flat slate paving stone, off the dirt—T, towel, washcloth,
     and the bar of soap on top.
    The pump gurgled to life with a croaking wail. Rob pushed the handle again, again,
     until water was tumbling into the basin, clean and clear and icy cold.
    He’d convinced himself he wasn’t lonely, these past two years. That the scenery and
     the friendship of an unnamed dog were all he needed. All he
wanted
.
    So often, we tell ourselves we don’t want or need things, simply because we’re rubbish
     at them.
    He’d been rubbish at friendships as a child, and so contented himself with solitary
     pursuits and the coveted company of his brother, when it was offered. He’d discovered
     he was rubbish with girls as well, some years later. They’d made it plain they didn’t
     want him, and so he’d decided perhaps he didn’t want them, either.
    He hadn’t wanted them in the obvious ways that other lads had, to be certain. He’d
     wanted them in ways he knew better than to try to explain, even as a hormone-drunk
     teenager. If his personality weren’t offensive enough, his sexual interests would
     surely finish the job. Better to choose loneliness than to suffer it alongside the
     official sting of another’s rejection.
    And so he’d chosen loneliness his entire childhood and adolescence.
    He switched arms when his wrist began to ache, the basin half full.
    It was only when he’d gone off to university and learned to drink that he’d felt capable
     of the socializing necessary to foster friendships. Alcohol was like a secret he’d
     finally been let in on. The password that earned him admittance into the club of carefree
     youth, and better late than never. A missing part, so simple and so obvious, but that
     when snapped into place allowed him to function as a young man was designed to.
    And he’d been good at it, to start—the drinking.
    Two lagers, maybe three, and Rob could shut his brain off enough to get lost in a
     conversation, like any other bloke. To make people laugh. To smile and to truly feel
     the ease and happiness it reflected. All these new people who’d never met the Rob
     from that previous, lonely life . . . The memory of that wretched child had begun
     to fade, like a bad dream forgotten with the sunrise. A liquid sunrise, golden and
     pure, poured into a glass to warm the very heart.
    He’d rarely gotten drunk, those first few years. The thrill and relief of being able
     to relate to people had been intoxicating enough. To see people smile when he arrived
     at the pub, actually excited to see him.
Him.
To feel a girl’s hand on his arm and realize he was being
flirted
with. To be invited to explore a woman’s body, to be touched and wanted, after so
     many years of feeling tolerated, at best.
    And from perhaps eighteen to twenty-eight, he’d managed a