11
Cord dreamed of that June night ten years ago. In his dream, he and Callum and Noah and West went to the lake, which would have been a better choice than what really happened. They were splashing and having fun as the sun went down, and then West suggested jumping off Bluebonnet Point. The rock outcropping was frequented by teens. When Cord had been in grade school, someone'd broken his neck on an underwater stump or rock. Teenagers still came, still jumped the forty feet into the lake below.
And Cord's vocal cords refused to work. Dream Cord was screaming at West, screaming at his friends not to go up there. Not to jump.
And thenhewas flying over the edge of the rock, tumbling headfirst toward the water.
Everything went dark. He was underwater.
He couldn't breathe.
It was so cold, surrounding him.
He thrashed—
And woke up in his own bed, sweating through his sheets and the quilt, shivering with fever.
Had he shouted in his delirium?
His throat was parched. He needed a drink. There was a glass on the bedside table. He didn't remember it being there before. It was empty.
The house was silent. It was the dead of night.
He groaned as he pushed up out of his bed. His muscles felt weak. It was an effort just to stand.
He moved down the hall, memories burying him deep as he kept one hand on the wall, just in case.
The bathroom light flipped on, feet away, illuminating the hallway. And Molly, who was standing in front of him. She squinted against the light.
"I thought I heard you up," she murmured softly. "What do you need?"
You.
The thought came unbidden, dangerous.
And he stumbled, his toe catching against a frayed seam in the old carpet runner.
She caught him, or he caught himself on the wall, with her trapped in the circle of his arms. Somehow, he'd managed to snug one arm around her waist. His other forearm rested against the wall above her head.
Her hands had lifted to meet his body and rested loosely against his hipbones.
She was warm and tousled, obviously just out of bed.
And he really wanted to kiss her.
Bad idea. So bad.
Not just because he was one thousand percent sure she didn't want whatever sickness he had, but also because she trusted him.
He closed his eyes, let his forehead rest against the cool plaster wall.
She obviously thought he could barely hold himself upright—she wasn't wrong—because she didn't move, didn't abandon him.
"I need some water," he whispered roughly. The bathroom tap was good enough for him.
He just had to let her go.
But he didn't move.
