My chest is tight, breathing shallow. The air between us feels thick, charged with something that makes my skin feel too sensitive, like I might combust if he touches me.
“And I know,” he says, voice dropping to something that’s barely above a whisper, rough with want and frustration and years of held-back longing, “that when you look at me, you feel something. Something that scares the hell out of you because it’s real and messy and completely out of your control.”
“Cal—”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His hand comes up to cup my face, palm warm and slightly callused against my cheek. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness, and I can feel my pulse thundering against his wrist. “Tell me last night meant nothing. Tell me you’re going to get on that plane tomorrow and forget this conversation ever happened.”
I can’t. The words stick in my throat like broken glass, sharp and impossible to swallow.
“That’s what I thought.” His smile is soft now, almost sad, the sharp edges worn away by something that looks like pain. “You know what I wished for just now?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. His thumb is still moving across my skin, tracing patterns that make me want to close my eyes and lean into the touch.
“I wished for you to stop running.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, the touch so gentle it’s almost reverent. “From us. From yourself. From the fact that maybe, just maybe, the life you built in California isn’t the one you actually want.”
The words hang between us like a dare, heavy with possibility and danger in equal measure.
“And I wished,” he continues, voice rough with something that sounds like pain, like years of wanting someone you can’t have, “for the courage to tell you that if you leave tomorrow, you’re not just breaking my heart. You’re breaking all of ours.”
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them, hot and unexpected. The garden blurs around the edges, all golden light and green shadows and the endless sound of water over stone.
“Don’t cry.” His other hand comes up to frame my face, and now I’m caged between his palms, surrounded by the scent of him and the warmth of his skin. “Please don’t cry, angel. I can handle a lot of things, but watching you cry because of something I said isn’t one of them.”
“I’m not crying because of you,” I manage, my voice thick with tears I can’t seem to stop. “I’m crying because?—”
“Because?”
“Because I don’t know how to want this.” The admission comes out broken, honest, scraped raw from the deepest part of me. “I don’t know how to want you and Jace and Silas without it destroying everything.”
His forehead drops to mine, and we’re breathing the same air now, sharing the same space in a way that feels both intimate and dangerous. I can taste the salt of my own tears, feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.
“Then let us teach you,” he whispers against my mouth, and the words sink into me like stones into deep water.
12
SILAS
Weddings are theater for people who can’t admit they’re either sadists or masochists.
To each their own, really.
I lean against the marble pillar in the main hall’s antechamber, watching the wedding party arrange themselves like chess pieces on a board that doesn’t matter. Charles is already inside the hall somewhere, probably sweating through his tuxedo and wondering why the hell he thought a public declaration of love was a good idea. Smart man in most things. Idiot when it comes to sentiment.
The air reeks of too many flowers—white roses and gardenias that cost more than most people’s cars—and the kind of nervous energy that makes my skin itch. Bridesmaids flutter around in emerald silk, adjusting each other’s dresses and reapplying lipstick for the thousandth time. Groomsmen check their watches like Cinderella waiting for the clock to strike so they can all go back to being the dumb fucks we all know them to be.
Really. Charles’s friends aren’t prizes amongst the herd, but they aren’t my problem. I just have to present a ‘normal’ exterior for a few more hours. Or at least do my best at normal.
“Relax, man,” Cal’s voice carries across the space as he adjusts some cousin’s boutonniere. “It’s just walking in a straight line. Even you can manage that.”
Jace moves through the chaos with military precision, clipboard in hand, organizing the processional like he’s planning a tactical assault. Both of them volunteered to be ushers instead of groomsmen, which left me with the honor of standing up there while Charles makes promises he’ll probably keep and vows that’ll sound pretty until reality sets in.
I’d tried to decline. Charles insisted. Something about brotherhood and loyalty and how he couldn’t imagine anyone else standing beside him.
Sentimental bastard.
The maid of honor—Rochelle, I think—keeps glancing at me like I’m a bomb that might detonate if she breathes wrong. Fair assessment. She sidles over to one of the other bridesmaids, voice pitched low in that way women use when they think they’re being subtle.
“Madison, would you mind switching positions with me? Just for the processional?”
