“Only when you’re ready,” he promises.
I pull in a deep breath, hold it, and when I finally let it out, I nod at him. With his hand still in mine, I force my legs forward until I’m waist-deep, and I can see the ground drops away ahead of me. The water is dark, intimidating, but the moon is still bright, and I suddenly don’t feel afraid.
I release Oak’s hand, look at him one last time, and dive forward into the water. The shock of the cold rips the air from my lungs. But when I break the surface, I let out a gasp—he was right… somehow it feels incredible. Like shedding an old skin. One I no longer need.
Oak swims to me, and I tilt my head back to the stars, feeling—oddly, for some reason—like I might cry. Like I needed this more than I knew. Like the cold is swallowing up all the pain, all the hurt that’s been tangled inside me. Like Oak is setting me free.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
But when I drop my gaze, I see something in his eyes, something that makes me want to kiss him. Makes me want to drift forward and forget that I am a girl who cannot be loved. Let the moonsink beneath my flesh and make me reckless and wild and unafraid.
I can see he’s thinking it too.
He’s thinking that maybe out here, in the cold, alone, our mistakes won’t follow us home. That we have nothing to lose.
“You’re really not afraid of me?” I ask, my lips touching the surface of the water.
He shakes his head. “I’m definitely afraid,” he admits, watching me with heat in his eyes, something primal in every blink, every drop of water that falls from his lashes. “But I’m still trying to figure out who you really are.”
“The villain, you mean?”
“No. A girl who seems to believe what other people say about her. Who pretends to be someone I should be scared of. But who is also so…” He shakes his head. “You’re so unlike… I mean you’re…” Again he loses his words, like he’s certain he’s saying all the wrong things. “I understand why you want to leave this town… because you’re better than this place. Better than the stories that everyone tells about you.” He swallows, looks me in the eyes. “This town doesn’t deserve you. You’re not the monster or the myth they’ve made you into….”
My heart is hammering against my ribs. No one has ever spoken to me like this—like he sees some part of me that I’ve kept hidden, that I’ve forgotten.
I lift my hand—without thinking—and I touch his face, catching drops of water along his cheek. I run my fingers down his jaw as if they are brushstrokes, reciting him to memory, painting him onto paper. My fingers find his mouth, tracing his lips, suspended there—maybe the closest I’ll ever allow myself to be. My fingers stall, and hewatches me like he’s going to shatter. Like neither of us will make it out alive. My eyes flutter closed as I absorb the cold of the water and the softness of his lips against my fingertips. And I feel more alive than I have words for.
I lift my eyes, and he’s so close, I could press my mouth to his and finally know what it feels like. Know the warmth and surrender and taste of his skin.
But he speaks, and it crumbles the almost-moment. “You’re shivering.”
I blink at him, because I hardly feel a thing, hardly feel the cold. But he’s right, my skin is pricked with gooseflesh, my bones vibrating.
“We should get out,” he adds. There is still warmth in his eyes, but a flicker of doubt has edged along his mouth. Like some part of him knows we’ve taken this too far.
I nod, a storm of emotion breaking inside me, and we swim toward the shallows.
At the pond it was me who pulled away—me who felt the danger of getting too close to him. But tonight it’s Oak who’s severed the moment.
We wade from the icy water onto the beach and grab our piles of clothes, then head toward the truck. “I have towels inside,” he tells me, the cold air piercing me down to the bone.
We’re almost to the truck when I hear voices.
Up on the ridge.
In the trees.
Getting louder.
Someone is walking down from the cliff.
A moment later three shadowed figures appear from the treeline, talking loudly, laughing. I narrow my focus through the dark and see Olive Montagu, Sebastian Marks—who I had ethics class with sophomore year—and Titha Roberts.
They draw closer, and I feel them eyeing us.
I just want to get into the truck before they recognize me.
“It’s way too damn cold!” I hear Titha exclaim. They must have been up on the ridge, then decided to hike down to the water.
