I find Trace in the parking lot. He’s driving off. I run after him, waving my hand. Thank goodness he stops and parks. I open the passenger-side door to get in. He gets out. We’re like polar opposites, repelling one another.
“Trace, please, talk to me.” I catch up to him in front of his truck. “Please.” I grab his arm. He tugs it from my hold. “Why won’t you talk to me? I’ve been calling and texting for three weeks. Three, Trace, and that’s not counting the days when I was in the hospital, and you didn’t even come and see me. Not even once.”
“It was my fucking fault you ended up in the hospital. It was my fucking reputation that got the shit kicked out of you. This town festers with judgment and hate. There wasn’t a way to get you out of this godforsaken town, away from my past and yours. Worst of all, I didn’t keep my promise to you. I didn’t protect you. The moment we stepped on school grounds, I should have warned everyone away from you, that you’re mine to protect. Except I didn’t.”
“Don’t you dare put what happened to me on your shoulders.” I grab his arms and level my gaze with his. “You didn’t put me in the hospital. They did.” I hug him tight to me. He’s stiff as a board. “And you did get me out. You sent my father, my real father, a picture of us and strands of my hair. You got me out of what you call a town festering with judgment and hate.”
“Then why are you back?”
“I was wrong.”
He wiggles out of my hold and crosses his arms. “Explain.”
I try.
“When I’m with you and your parents, our friends and their families, I only feel wanted and loved. There was no judgment. With you and them, I’ve come out of my shell.” I furrow my brow. “I was able to do that because you all know what happened to me. You didn’t have to guess why I’m quiet and reserved. When I’m too quiet or stare off into space, you all are concerned. You all understand why I speak like I’m a walking, talking textbook. Our friends and their families understand me because they know about my past. Does that make sense?”
He nods, like he’s digesting my words. With his reassurance, I do my best to put my feelings into words.
“I’ve learned that my quietness made things worse. You get me to open up. You let me be vulnerable in a safe space. You all do. Moving to a city where no one knew my past wasn’t what I expected. People asked a shit ton of questions about my life. Or they only talked about themselves. Here”—I point at the school—“we know about one another.”
“I’m the manwhore of the town.” His arms fall to rest against his sides. He avoids looking at me.
“And I’m a social pariah, but we can change, Trace.” I wrap my arms around his waist and glance up at him. “We’ve changed. No, not change.” I shake my head, trying to again articulate the thoughts that are a jumbled mess inside my head. “We. Are. Better. You, the manwhore”—I wince—“admitted you haven’t had sex in six months.”
“Almost eight months now, if we’re counting.” He drapes his arms over my shoulders.
“Eight, okay.” I smile. “That’s why you aced math and I flunked it. I can go with that.”
He smiles back. Life is looking up again.
“What I’m trying to say is we’re better because of the people around us who know us. You know about my past. I’ve heard about yours. We’re trying to move away from our pasts. Our pasts don’t define us. We’re good people trying to become better. I hope everything I’m saying makes some sort of sense?” I’m starting to ramble. I love him so much. It’s good to be home. I want to see my friends, old ones and new ones.
“It does.” He blows out a breath. “For the record, I won’t be kissing anyone but you.”
I scrunch my face. “We technically did lose our bet, didn’t we?”
He bops my nose. “We did.”
“Then same. I am only kissing you, Trace Saints.”
“Aw, Sorrow, I love you, beautiful.”
“You do?”
“You are mine, sweet Sorrow.”
“I am? I’m yours?” My words are quiet and soft. Say them too loudly, and I could break the spell between us.
“You are mine, little bird. My beautiful, sweet, sweet Sorrow.”
“That means you’re mine, too, right?” I have to hear him repeat his words. My heart is beating so loudly in my ears that it’s difficult to make out the words for sure.
“Yes, baby. I love you, Sorrow. So much, babe. Missed you so much. Be my girl? Be my girlfriend?”
“I thought you didn’t like labels and that you were keeping your options open?” I backtrack. “Not that I’m ungrateful.” I’m looking at a gift horse in the mouth and royally fumbling. “Are you sure, Trace?”
“I’ve never been more sure in my life.”
