Page 25 of All The Ways to Miss You

“You know,” Evan says, his voice even despite our hurried pace, “this was an old cemetery in the 1800s. I read they didn’t remove all the bodies before they made it a park.”

“If you’re still trying to scare me, it’s working.” I let out a nervous laugh.

“I’m a Chicago history buff, that’s all. I bet if you dig around that old house of yours, you’ll find bones.” He makes woo-wooing sounds and jiggles his arms with waving fingers.

“Don’t you dare ruin that house for me.” I turn serious. “It always felt spooky when I ran through here, and now I know why.”

“I kind of hate that you run at night by yourself.”

“Oh, don’t give me that I’m-a-weak-girl-and-you’re-a-strong-man crap.”

“I would never, even though you are.” He grins.

For that, I give him a punch in the arm.

“Oh no, you didn’t.” Evan changes course, darting in my direction. He chases me off the path and into a soccer field.

I yelp and dash away, dodging his grasp to escape. I’m fast, but he’s faster. After a few close calls and playful grabbing, tugging at clothes and worming away, he catches me in his arms, swinging us until we tumble to the ground. Falling on top of him, I knock the wind out of both of us.

Chest to chest and legs entwined on the chilled grass, we’re laughing again. Through silvery air, I make out his face in the dim light of a flickering streetlight. He’s handsome, rugged, sexy, flirtatious, and I’m reminded of our kiss. I was desperate, his lips were wild on mine, and it was far too brief.

“Like I said, weak,” he whispers. Evan swipes a loose tendril of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. I imagine curling into his touch the way I want to.

I’m small in his arms, something else I shouldn’t be thinking about. I want to roll over and feel the weight of his body on mine. There’s a long pause, and I focus on his lips, full and wet. Yes, I want to kiss him, but I refuse the possibility of a repeat rejection. I decide to forgo the information in the articles I read online and instead take Ozzy’s words of wisdom—play hard to get.

“Just promise you’ll let me join you if you decide to run late again,” he says.

Though I would love to make that promise, I know better. He’s only being nice, and I want something from him that may never happen. I break away. Standing with my hands on my hips, I peer down at him sprawled on the grass.

“What’s wrong?” He sits up on his elbows.

“Race you back.” Needing a diversion, I stir up the competitive nature between us and sprint away. With him forced to leap from the ground, I have a huge head start. I fly through the park, down the mansion-and-tree-lined streets, through the business district of the Gold Coast, and into River North.

Evan’s on my heels for those few miles, but I can tell he’s holding back, at least until we arrive at our street. That’s when he sails past and tags the railing of our building’s stoop.

He grabs my arm, spinning me until he locks me in an embrace, his hands splaying across my back. We’re face-to-face again, breathing heavily. My heartbeat pounds from running and being near him. It may be my wild imagination, but there’s a crackle of chemistry. The magnetic air forces us closer. I swipe my tongue over my lips, recalling the last time they touched his.

Our gazes lock for another long moment before he whispers, “I win.”

“You cheated,” I tease.

“Friends don’t cheat.”

“You’re not my friend—yet.” I give him a teasing push to add an arm’s length of space. I climb the stoop, leaving him behind.

“What will you call me then?”

I turn and cock my head before considering. The perfect nickname appears in my mind immediately. “I think I’ll call you SpongeBob.”

twelve

Every place Evan touched me burns . . . handprints on my arm, the inside of my thighs where our legs entwined when we rolled to the ground, the shell of my ear where his finger tucked an errant tendril of hair, and then the graze of his palm on my cheek when he pulled away. I hide in my room, my back pressed to the wall, and hug myself to control the unexpected thrill bubbling up inside.

I glance out my bedroom window to recall our exchange on the stoop, but find that Evan remains. He’s sitting on the step, his elbows anchored on his raised knees, his hands clenched before him, staring out at the street. I can’t see his face, but I want to pretend he’s remembering all the places I touched him too.

This is too pleasant a thought, and my whispers immediately squelch the ridiculous idea.

I could argue back. Remind them today was different from the others, but they won’t relent. They never do. What little peace of mind I’ve had lately battles the thoughts, but they don’t fight for seconds or even minutes; they fight for days and sometimes weeks. And being with Evan tonight has afforded me many more moments of peace than I’m used to.