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She follows, looping her arms around my torso. “You’ll stay with me, right?”
My body sings with triumph, my skin tingling.
I swallow and hug her back. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
Because this is where I’m supposed to be. Always has been.
By her side.
I take her hand in mine and lead us out of the room. sombr’s “Back to Friends” plays as we step onto the dance floor, and it pulls a grin out of me. Not fucking possible for us to ever go back to being just friends.
I want this girl for life.
She twirls and drapes her arms around my neck. I slide my hands down her hips, holding her close. We smile, moving to the rhythm. I feel people’s eyes on us, but with Isla? It doesn’t matter. They can all watch her choosing me right in front of everyone.
So I bend my face and capture her lips with mine.
I’m hers, and I don’t want it to be any other way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
breathe with me, baby
MICHAEL
Nineteen years old
I park my car beside Isla’s, and, with a grin I can’t seem to wipe off, I climb out. After the party last night, when Asher and I brought Isla and her very drunk roommate home, my girl asked if we could get together tonight to finally talk and clear the air. Of course, I said yes. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks.
We made plans for six, but because I’ve been itching to see her, I’m twenty minutes early. I’ve missed her so damn much. With any luck, our talk will go well, and she won’t balk when I ask if I can watch her practice again.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. When I pull it out, a picture of Dad with Meg and me flashes on my screen, so I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Hi, kid. I was worried something happened to you.”
I pause outside the building, my hand hovering over the doorknob. “What are you talking about?”
He laughs. “When was the last time you called us? I can’t even remember. Sure, you text us, but that’s not the same.”
Dang. I’ve been so caught up in hockey, classes, and Isla, I really have stopped calling my parents. They call me, and I always tend to cut the conversation short.
“Sorry. Things are kinda hectic these days.”
He chuckles. “I understand that. Your birthday is coming up. Any plans to come home? We’d love to take you out to dinner.”
“Sounds great.” I put the call on speaker and then open the Calendar app to check my schedule. “We’ll have a game on Saturday. I could drive home after and spend Sunday with you.”
“Awesome. Let’s do it.”
As much as I don’t want to rush Dad off the phone again, the arena closes in fourteen minutes, so I end the call, then head inside. The hallway is dark, the lights from the rink the only ones lighting up the space. An unfamiliar song echoes off the cinderblock walls as I walk toward the ice. The words are in French, I think. Maybe she chose it for her free skate program?
When I approach the ice, I scan it, expecting to see her spinning or jumping, but she’s not here. The music is the only sound, no skates scraping across the ice.
She could be in the locker room, but I don’t think she’d leave the music on if she were.
I step closer to the boards, frowning, a sixth sense telling me something isn’t right. Two more steps, and I see her.
Isla is sitting on the ice, arms wrapped around her knees, shoulders trembling. Her skates are still on, blades flat against the surface beneath her, and her head is bowed.
