I don’t know, conscience! Stop asking questions!
Merit scrutinizes me with eyes bluer than the Caribbean, all while I fail to patch over the weird feeling in my chest. It’s a brand of unease that I mistakenly thought was only attainable through acts of intense adrenaline.
This whole night, Knox and I have invited people to form their own judgments about us, and I got a particularly nasty side-eye from a group of blondes. If I don’t treat this like the business arrangement it is, everything will fall through.
I’m not sure why Merit squeezes my shoulder—maybe because I’m looking especially depressed tonight—but the gesture sends a microtremor through my arm.
“I’m serious. Knox Mulligan may be a lot of things, but a boyfriend hasn’t been one of them. You mean something to him, and I hope he’s smart enough to tell you that.”
While I appreciate the kind words, Merit’s claim isunfounded. Once Knox and I drain each other dry, we’re going to go back to being strangers, and some other girl will come along and capture his attention. A new, shiny thing for him to obsess over. I hate that a part of me is…conflicted…over that outcome.
Knox and I have long jumped over a lot of hurdles to get to this point, and forming feelings for him would be so insanely unscrupulous that I’d make a politician look honorable.
I don’t know what to say. It feels like there’s vinegar cutting up the inside of my mouth.
Thankfully, Merit’s caprices save me from spilling anything that might hinder the operation, and the mood of the conversation lightens exponentially. She waves me over in the direction she was initially heading.
“Come on. I think I can see Knox and the rest of the guys over by the composite wall.”
I follow silently in her footsteps, head bowed, doing the unwise thing and pulling out my phone to see if Leif texted me after our heated staring contest. The screen is blank.
Really, Staten? You think he’d message you after your “boyfriend” put a very public claim on you?
The only thing I should be focused on is playing it up for Knox’s friends,notthe fact that I’ve been reduced to some Frankenstein creation in my best friend’s eyes. I didn’t realize I was paying such a grueling tax.
Pocketing my phone, my eyes hook with Knox’s when his circle of friends widens to accommodate me, and he places his hand on my side. His touch is different this time. Still featherlight, sure, but with a finesse you only use around delicate things of great importance.
A pith of concern creases his eyebrows, his eyes not unlike the mirror-dark surface of a lake during nightfall. The only time he’s ever looked at me like this was when I got bodychecked by his car, and even then, the recollection is still hazy.
His usual blasé attitude is a distant second to the guilt that he must have gleaned from me in the past hour, when we both cooperated in the world’s most pathetic, veering-on-voyeuristic display of affection.
“Are you okay?” he asks, the grit of his voice warm, familiar, dredging up that permanent rumble that sits in the pit of his throat. It’s as if—in this very moment—all his caustic edges and porcupine quills have been filed down into something…tolerable.
His fingers still lay along the curve of my ribs, temporarily caging the anxiety that trespasses through the backcountry of my thoughts, running the perimeter of switchbacks in the dead of night, undeterred by my futile efforts to keep itout.
“Yeah, sorry. I just needed a minute,” I whisper, grateful that the rest of his teammates seem to be too involved in their own side conversations to pay much mind to us.
“You never have to apologize for taking time for yourself. I’m the one who should be sorry. That whole display back there was tasteless.”
I feel my heart catch on a pointy segment of my ribs, and my breathing stumbles over itself. Like quicksilver, guilt comes to collect its debt, taking the first, half-formed globules of my tears as compensation. “I was the one who spurred you on. It’s my fault.”
Before I know it, I’m entrenched in his arms, glued to the brawn of his chest as a pressure descends on the crown of my head. His chin rests in my hair, and I’m amazed at how perfectly we fit together. There’s no awkwardness, no shifting to realign ourselves—everything, down to the raw corners, find equally raw sockets to merge with.
His breath is warm and suspiciously decent smelling. Maybe he popped a piece of gum for my sake, in case we were suddenly deployed into mouth-to-mouth territory. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
“Let’s start over, okay? Try to cut back a little. Really ease into this thing like it’s real.”
Like it’s real.
Reminding me that it’s not has nearly become a daily occurrence. I force the tears down a deep, dark gorge that even a therapist wouldn’t rappel into, praying that they’re gone before the shot lighting can capture them.
My voice is small, squashable, and I borrow Knox’s confidence to tighten my lips into a courteous smile. “Okay.”
Suddenly, every eye is on me, and I feel as if I’m a bow-legged gazelle stumbling upon a communal watering hole dominated by the Serengeti’s deadliest predators.
A blond who matches Knox in height and muscle mass extends his arm first, showcasing a lopsided grin that’s both charming and boyish at the same time. Merit is tucked into his side, which must mean that this is the aforementioned boyfriend. He’s daunting like most hockey players are, but there’s a kindness in his cenote eyes that offers a sense of safety—glamours a force field around me to dispel the harsh forces of nature.
“I’m Crew. It’s nice to meet you,” he greets, a corkscrew curl from his middle part falling to the wayside.
