His eyes close, lips pressing tight, like he’s trying not to break.
“I want to trust that everything will be okay. That this will all work out,” I say softly. “But that’s where I am.”
“Sucks to hear,” he says. “But I can handle that.”
The guilt creeps in and crashes over me all at once. I blink through the burn of fresh tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your texts. That I didn’t call. I’ve just… I’ve been so hurt.”
I press my head into the back of the seat, trying to get a grip. “I’ve been struggling. I’m so fucking sad. I’m a mess. And I knew—” My voice cracks. “I knew that if I talked to you…” I glance his way. “If I saw you… I’d forgive you. I’d fall back in.”
I shake my head, my throat tightening. “And it shouldn’t be that easy. You put me through hell. You did some really fucked-up things.”
He leans in, wrapping his arms around me the best he can over the console.
“Shit,” he breathes, pulling me closer. “Fuck, babe. I know. I know.”
Then he cups my cheeks—his hands trembling—and presses his lips to mine. It’s firm. Desperate. Like he thinks he can kiss away the pain. The memories. The ghosts that still haunt me.
And God, I want him to.
I wish it were that easy.
But it’s not.
I kiss him back—frantic. Like if I stop, I’ll lose him again. For good.
His hands slide into my hair, his body shifting closer.
It feels like we’re free-falling—both of us. Trusting the parachute.
Will it save us?
Or take us down together?
He pulls back, breathless, sinking into his seat. “Seriously, babe.” His voice is low, gravelly. “We can’t keep kissing like this if you’re unsure of where you stand.”
My lips tingle, and I’m practically gasping for air, stunned by his restraint.
He lets out a shaky breath, turning his head toward me. “I don’t want you doing anything you’ll regret. I’d rather wait until you’re sure.”
Then a smile spreads across his lips. “Clark can’t handle emotional rejection.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. I can’t help but appreciate the shift. He’s been vulnerable, and so have I. We both know he meanshecan’t handle it. “Well, I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt Clark.”
He reaches for my hand, and I weave my fingers through his.
I flash him a grin. “You know how I got caught by a cop making out in a car, shirt off and all?”
He nods. “Your first boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” I say, laughing as the memory resurfaces. “It was here. In this parking lot.”
His grin stretches wide. “No wonder you asked if I was trying to get laid.”
“This is where everyone goes to make out—or do more—in a car. How’d you know about it?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Matt.”
I laugh harder. “Why am I not surprised? Wow. He’s not even from here and still knows all of Chicago’s secrets to getting lucky.”
