He repeated himself, “I. Don’t. Lo—”
“You do,” Quan said. “But you’ve got weird shit going on in your head. Do you feel responsible for Andy or something? Guilty? You’re afraid of losing her, so you push her away? What is it? Figure it out today because she’s leaving in a week, and you’ll regret it forever.”
Khai shook his head as his brain hiccupped. That wasn’t right. That didn’t make sense. That wasn’t him.
And fuck, there was only one week left.
“Why won’t you ride the damned bike?” Quan asked.
Khai looked at the wall. “You’re 5.5 times more likely to get in a fatal accident on a motorcycle than a car.”
“That’s still only a 0.07 percent chance. We have a higher chance of dying from Mom’s cooking.”
Khai blinked. “You remember the exact number?”
Quan rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “Yeah, I can read, and I remember shit. I’m actually kind of smart.”
“Riding a motorcycle isn’t smart.”
Quan aimed a pointed stare at him. “Sometimes the things people do and believe don’t make sense. I feel most alive when I might die. And you, you’re convinced you don’t feel, and the responsible thing is to avoid people.”
“That’s the way things are,” Khai said.
“No, it’s bullshit. Where was Andy heading when he got hit by that semi?”
Khai looked down at the deep scratches on the motorcycle. Those had happened the night of the accident. “He was coming to see me.”
“Why?”
Khai tilted his head as his chest hollowed out and caved inward. “Because I asked him to. I wanted to hang out.”
Shit, this awful feeling was guilt. He had a name for it now.
“And have you once in the past ten years invited anyone to come see you?” Quan asked.
Khai shook his head. “But that’s because I don’t need people around. I don’t get lonely.”
“The guy who invited Andy over because he didn’t want to be alone doesn’t get lonely?” Quan asked. “How’s that flu going for you? Did you ever get a fever?”
Khai stared at his brother mutinously. He didn’t want to talk about the fever he’d never had.
Quan arched an eyebrow. “So are you gonna tell her now?”
“Tell her what?”
“That you’re embarrassingly in love with her, that’s what,” Quan said in an exasperated tone.
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not in love with her?”
Quan rubbed at his head for a moment before he took a bracing breath and considered Khai with renewed patience. “How do you know?”
Khai blinked. “How do I know I’m not in love?”
“Yeah, how do you know you’re not in love?”
“I know because I can’t love.” He’d gone over this already, and he didn’t like repeating himself.
“So, like, you don’t think about her ever?” Quan asked.
“No, I do.”
“And you don’t care about her? Like if she’s sad, you don’t give a shit?”
“No, I care,” Khai said.
“And you wouldn’t take a bullet for her?” Quan asked.