Alex squeezes my shoulder. “I hope not. But that’s why you should let me—”
“No. I’m not taking your money.”
“Okay, okay. That’s okay. I understand,” he says, and the silence returns.
Which is bad.
I hold my breath as it happens again—the scene playing out in my head. Except this time, it’s not an imagined scene. It’s what actually happened four years ago. Patrick actually screamed at me, grabbed me, yanked me back so hard I had bruises on my shoulder. Then he actually hit me, his fist breaking my nose.
There was so much blood, and I couldn’t breathe. And he kept screaming at me to shut the fuck up, threatening to do it again.
My mom heard the noise from the other room and came in to see what happened. She pushed him away, called 9-1-1, had him arrested for hurting me. I spent the night in the hospital, had surgery a week later to fix my busted nose, spent two weeks home from school because I had a concussion.
“She wouldn’t,” I repeat, and this time, it’s a complete statement. Because I can’t believe, not for one second, that she’d allow him—encouragehim, even—to hurt me again. She’s changed, and she’s angry and awful now, and I have no idea why. But she’s still my mom, and she still went through that shit with me. “She wouldn’t.”
Alex doesn’t say anything, but he nods and holds me to him. Then he turns his head and kisses my hair.
Across the river, a deer peeks out from the trees and looks around cautiously before stepping up to the water to drink. Alex hums quietly and kisses me again, and some semblance of calm starts to wash over me. The deer stays there for several minutes, drinking and then grazing on the grass along the edge of the sandbar, and we both watch silently. It’s relaxing this time, the quiet. It’s maybe what I needed. When the deer finally wanders back into the trees after a bit longer, I close my eyes and rest my head up against Alex’s shoulder.
My breathing is back to normal, and my heart is no longer racing so fast it hurts.
The sun’s going down behind us, though, the distinct flickers of fireflies becoming visible among the trees and brush.
“We should probably head back home soon,” Alex says, echoing my own thoughts. Then he laughs once and shakes his head. “God, we were supposed to talk about California and stuff.”
“Yeah. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“I, uh, made a budget. You know, to show you that it’s, um, doable, I guess.”
There’s that hesitation in his voice again. I focus back across the river, letting my eyes follow the bright, brief streaks of light from the fireflies as I try to keep my anxiety from returning. “And is it?” I ask.
He inhales a long breath and then lets it out slowly. “Yeah, I think so. I mean... kinda.”
“Kinda?”
“It’s complicated.”
It would be. Of course it would be. I just nod and keep staring off at the fireflies. It’s not more than a few seconds later, though, when his fingers brush against my cheek.
“Nico . . .”
He applies a gentle but firm pressure, tilting my chin toward him, and when our eyes meet, a rush of shame courses through me. I try to pull away, but he shakes his head and lowers his mouth to mine in a kiss that’s not so gentle or chaste. His tongue traces my lower lip, and when I open my mouth for him, he eagerly explores. I groan when his hand slips down my neck, his fingertips grazing along the bare skin of my throat. He doesn’t stop, and I don’t try to pull away again. He deepens the kiss more, and he seems to be playing with things—the angle, the pressure, the way his tongue caresses me. And his hands aren’t idle, either. His fingers find thehem of my shirt and tease along my skin, hot and intense.
“Oh, fuck,” I grunt, and I finally break away, lowering my head as I breathe heavily. He keeps caressing along my waist, and his lips flutter light kisses along my jaw.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, though I can tell he’s not actually sorry at all. He does, however, slow down and—reluctantly—straighten up. His hand lingers on my hip, underneath my shirt, his fingers flexing into my side, and he lets out a shuddering breath as his eyes fall to my lips.
It’s my turn to laugh, and I shake my head and set a hand on his chest, pushing him away. “Can you show me the budget you made? Back at the house, maybe.”
His eyes are dark and unfocused as they dart up to mine, but he nods right away. “Yeah, of course. Yeah.” He blinks a few times, then his face lights up. “You mean it? You want to see it?”
“If only to see how bad it is,” I say. He frowns, but I roll my eyes. “I’m kidding. Yes, I want to see it. Though I don’t... think...”
He hops up and dusts the sand off his shorts, shaking his head. “I’ll show you, and we’ll figure it out. Okay?”
With a tentative smile, he reaches down to offer me his hand. I stare at him for a few long seconds, and then I nod, take his hand, and let him help me up. His arm immediately loops around my waist, supporting and protective, and my heart flutters in my chest.
Is it possible—this dream of his where I follow him across the country and we start a new life together in California?
