Bonnie doesn’t argue. She rises to her feet, and when I place the hoodie around her shoulders, she sighs like the warmth settles her nerves.
“I know it’s a weird situation,” she admits, staring at my shoulder. “It’s like when she came back, I stopped wondering if she was just a figment of my imagination. I was beginning to think I’d simply made up everything I remembered about her from back then. I was so fucked up during those first few years, it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”
“It’s different now,” I say.
She nods. “I feel everything now. I notice more than I did the first time. It’s hard being sober and realizing that everything you blocked out is always one word or thought from threatening everything you’ve worked on. There are so many things that Iwish I could even regret from back then, yet I can’t recall so much of it. When I eventually got around to apologizing to the guys for what I put them through, I had to keep reminding myself that even though I didn’t remember, they did. I’ll never forgive myself for the way I treated them.”
I’m numb as she sinks her arms into the jacket, and as I straighten it, I hear her curse under her breath.
“Shit,” she mutters.
“What?” I ask.
“I went sad girl again, didn’t I?” she asks, voice full of frustration. “God, how did you do this to me again?”
My lips curve upward. “I make you sad?” I ask.
“What—No, no. I mean—” She groans into her hand, and I chuckle softly. “I just mean, how do you get me to feel like I can talk about this shit?”
“Maybe you were just looking for someone to tell you it’s okay,” I say, zipping the jacket.
“What is?”
She finally meets my eyes, and I gulp at the lights reflecting back at me in them.
“To be sad,” I tell her.
Her chest falls as if she’s taking in the words, and my chest tightens upon seeing that vulnerable look in her eyes. And when I pull her hair out from beneath the fleece, I force myself to slow down.
My heart is running so quickly that it feels like it might jump out of my ribcage, and I’m not sure I would chase it if it leapt into her arms.
It belongs to her anyway.
I catch myself wrapping my hand around her cheek, eyes locked on her moving lips. Her words are jumbled and hoarse, and she’s staring at my mouth as longingly as I’m staring at hers.
However, I force myself to blink and clear my throat, tongue pushing out over my dry lips as I drag my thumb over the rough zipper texture.
“Warmer?” I ask, though my voice feels like it’s garbled in my throat.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Thanks.”
I don’t know why I’m still standing there, why my feet seem to be rooted to the spot.
“You’re welcome.”
I’ve never saidyou’re welcomein my entire life.
Shit. The one shot I have at my dream girl, and this close without my mask, I’m a goner.
It’s different with even just a table between us, a car console, kitchen island, with some kind of buffer that keeps me from exposing my whole self and reminds me of the boundary between us. Like this… with nothing more than a curtain of fog separating our bodies, I’m slipping. Her abyss can cradle me into nothingness if that nothingness is her embrace. I’ll gladly drown myself for one second of bliss.
Move.
Don’t expose yourself yet.
It’s too early for this.
The voice in the back of my mind is such a fucking killjoy, even if I know it’s right.
