“That’s great!” she beams. “He can help me, and maybe this won’t have to get back to my parents.”
“Oh, so you were just hoping that my friend would help you. Cut you a deal.”
“No.No, I justthought because of the model that he would be—” she replies on the defense before noticing the teasing smirk on my face. She lets out a frustrated sound and hits myshoulder. “Fuck. Don’tdothat. You made me feel bad for a second.”
I put my hands up in fake surrender. “I can’t help it. Rich guilt is too good of a punchline. And I can say that, my dad’s loaded.”
She laughs out loud; a beautiful, genuine laugh that I feel all the way to my toes. Such unrestrained joy wrapped inside an alluring but tight package. It lingers in the air, a song for just me and the birds hiding in the oaks around us.
I step closer on instinct and her laughter dies down at my proximity, but she doesn’t move away. A shiver seems to run through her, and that’s when I realize her jacket is thin and feeble. “What the hell are you wearing?”
She looks down and back up with a scrunch in her brows. “It’s new. I just got it the other day.”
“You look like you’re freezing,” I comment and go to take my hoodie off. “Here.”
“I’m wearing a velour tracksuit. It’s not meant to be covered up.”
“Come on, just put it on until we’re inside,” I persist, trying to hand her the hoodie, goosebumps erupting over my bare arms. Again, she pushes it away, stubborn in the most beautifully irritating way.
“You don’t cover up beauty,” she declares.
“Doesn’t frostbite give you premature wrinkles?” I joke.
She freezes like the notion of that scares her. “No,” she says, but she doesn’t sound confident in that answer.
“Well, I guess we’ll see,” I tease, and once again, she pushes my shoulder playfully, only this time her shoe slides on the leaves beneath her. It all happens in slow motion. I throw my hoodie to the ground and scoop my arm around her before she can fall. My skin comes into contact with the soft velour of hertracksuit, but also a bit of her own skin as it pokes out at her midriff.
She squeaks with panic and then fists the front of my shirt to help balance herself. When her feet are sturdy, and she’s no longer in danger of face planting, we both let out a sigh of relief, but when we both notice how close we are, we freeze in our tracks.
It’s like I’ve stopped breathing. My arm is wrapped around her and her body is right against mine, like she’s something precious in my arms. Her hands are still holding me tight, my shirt bundled in her fists like she’s afraid of what will happen if she moves a single muscle. We avoid each other’s eyes, neither of us making a sound.
She looks up at me, her eyelashes fluttering. Even her anxiousness is cute as her mouth opens and closes every time she goes to say something but decides against it. My attention stays on her lips, on how they look soft and subtle.
I wonder what would happen if I lean forward a tiny bit, extend the offer that I know we both want to take. Just this once, in this town where nobody is watching and we can be any two people we want.
I can see the same line of thought cross through her as our eyes lock together. Fear and desire and worry and want, all wrapped into one. My face leans forward ever so slightly, just to test the waters, and she notices with wide eyes. For half a second, I think she’s going to accept it, close the gap between us like the energy demands, but then she hangs her head, looking defeated.
I finally let my arms fall, and her hands unclasp my T-shirt, leaving behind tiny wrinkles in the material. She takes a step back, still looking worried by whatever just happened.
We’re silent for a few awkward seconds, each of us reflecting on what was about to happen before I clearmy throat and motion over my shoulder. “Come on. I’ll make sure Lou looks at your car.”
I grab my hoodie and walk her inside. For the rest of the day, I play the what-if game. What if she hadn’t stepped away? What if we had finally given in? What if we weren’t from stupid fucking Greenwood?
What if.
ELEVEN
Playing: “Sex” by The 1975
I feellike I’m dreaming.
When we get into my apartment, the silence is loud. We clutch each other’s hand, tension quaking between us as we look at each other in the dark space, not sure who should make the first move or if we even should. We crossed a line the other night, but tonight feels different. That kiss, the way it seeped into our pores and down to our toes, doesn’t feel like something we can take back. And now we’re standing in it, desperately wanting to jump all the way in but knowing what it would mean if we did.
But neither of us say the words. They’re lingering in the air between us, daring one of us to put an end to this before things get too chaotic, but I think that’s the problem. We itch for that chaos, yearn for the havoc we can find only in each other and no one else, and neither of us want to give up that chance of happiness. The idea of being with someone who can actually make us feel alive.
We’ve been at a standstill for so long, and now we’re running full force, unable to stop.
I lead her down the hall, not sure what else to do but not wanting to be anywhere but the sanctity of my room. When we walk through the door, I expect her to look around, familiarize herself with my band posters and the amateur pottery on my desk my dad has made me since he took it up, but she doesn’t. She lets me close the door and then she’s there, looking at me, watching me intently, her lip tugged between her lips. This time, when we close the distance between us, it’s soft and gentle and sweet; it sends an entire avalanche of emotion soaring through me as our lips tangle together, moving and pleading until it gears up into something savage and primal.
