Maybe being in love is the same way. The addiction, the dopamine, the desire for more.
Ember, snuggled into my arms, makes an incoherent sound but doesn’t wake.
My eyes close and I drift. Sleep is coming on quickly, but ahead of it are thoughts of high school. Of sneaking off to my parents’ beach house, the way she showed me how to dance without music, and how long she waited to tell me whatshmilymeant.
There hasn’t been a minute, not since the day I pulled her from that lake, that I didn’t love her. Back then, and today.
I love this girl.
23
Ember
Day two wakingup like this.
Noah snores softly, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm. I trail a hand over the expanse. His muscles are well-defined but not bulky. If there is one thing I know for sure, it’s that his body was made for soccer.
His eyes flutter open, and a low sound reverberates through his chest.
“Sorry I woke you,” I whisper.
“No you’re not.” His voice is scratchy.
“You’re right,” I say, grinning. I’m not sorry at all.
He rolls over so he’s facing me. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. I worked up an appetite last night.”
My stomach growls as if it’s in on the conversation. Swinging my legs around to the edge of the bed, I stand and pull a shirt over my head. “Basic needs first. Then I was thinking we could go to the lake. Maybe laugh about how you thought you were being a hero.” Noah tosses a pillow at me, and I dodge it. “Get dressed,” I call out, heading for the bathroom.
Just as I close the door, I hear his phone vibrating on my dresser.
A few minutes later I open the door, hoping to hear who he’s on the phone with, but I can only hear the baritone of his voice, not the words. Sighing, I stick my toothbrush in my mouth. I’m spitting out toothpaste when he comes to find me.
He props one arm on the jamb above his head and watches me rinse. He’s dressed in last night’s clothes, his white shirt untucked, and the top two buttons are undone. On his face is resolute sadness, like his heart has been carved out and he’s hollow. I know that look. It’s the one that prompted me to tell him to go four years ago. For Noah, sacrifice equals anguish.
“Congratulations.” I try to smile.
“Ember—”
“You’re leaving.” My gaze rests on his in the mirror.
“Come with me?” Noah’s eyes are bright, the corners of his lips turned up with the hint of a hopeful smile. His tone is urgent, making the question sound more like a plea.
“Noah…” I tip my head to the side and slowly shake it.
“Please. Think about it. What do you feel?”
I turn to face him, lifting myself up so I’m sitting on the counter. I know what he’s getting at. It’s still there. The pulse of electricity, the seismic activity of an off-the-scale earthquake, and the extraordinary power of attraction that bound us together when we were fresh-faced and new.
“Magic,” I say with a lift of my shoulders. That one, simple word is the tip of the iceberg for us, and yet it’s powerful enough to encompass everything hidden beneath the surface.
“Yes,” Noah breathes, stepping in to the bathroom so we’re only a foot apart. “Exactly. We could do this every day.” He places his hand over my heart. “We could have magic every day. Not like in high school when we had to be home, at work, or at practice. Not like now when we only have a little more time together.”
My heart twists at the mention of our dwindling time.
“We could have magic all the time, Ember. Let’s do it.” He’s talking fast, excited by his idea. He comes even closer, so that now he’s standing in the space created by my open legs.
“Where would I stay, Noah? You’ll be on the road. A new city every other week, maybe more often than that.” As much as I want to let myself get wrapped up in this fairytale idea, I know better.
