It’s beating and beating.Pounding, my heart.
As if it’s really a crazy little maniac, like she told me. The most alive thing in my body.
The most alive thing in the world.
The most alive it’s ever been.
For the girl who writes me letters.
Hundreds and hundreds of letters. Thousands even. Because she’s been writing them for the past eight years.
Andthat’sbecause she’s been in love with me for the past eight years.
She’s in love with me.
With me.
She’sstupidlyin love with a man who knows nothing about love. Who knows even less about it and relationships than a fucking four-year-old.
Jesus Christ, Salem.
Baby, you’ve fucked up. You’ve fucked up so bad.
I bark out a laugh.
For some reason, I can’t stop laughing tonight.
For some reason, it hurts every time I do.
It hurts to be hunched over her scattered notes.
It fucking hurts to read her words over and over, while rocking back and forth as my reborn heart bangs against my rib cage.
She loves me.
She.Loves. Me.
Why does she love me?
Why does it hurt that she does?
Why does it hurt that I can’t be anything other than what I am?
Why can’t I breathe? Why the world is still closing in at the thought that I’m The Blond Arrow?
The fucking perfectionist who can’t love the girl who’s in love with him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ionce heard a song about a girl dancing on landmines.
Slow dancing.
Because she wanted to hold on to this boy she was in love with. And holding on to him was like holding an explosive in her hands. So she’d tiptoe around him all so she could love him. Until one day everything blows up in her face.
Things explode and she catches fire.
Well, what else do you expect when you fall in love with a grenade?
