Page 20
I feel my face contort, trying to find the words, but they get trapped in the hollow space between my teeth. I give up entirely, scratching at the back of my head, knowing I’ve fucked it already. It’s written all over his face—the slightly disgusted hitch of his upper lip, the eyebrow that shoots skyward.
“What”—he waves the candy stick at my construction—“the hell is that?”
“S’pology.”
He laughs tightly, flashing a bit of blue tongue from the candy. “That’s not an apology.”
I bristle at his reaction. I spent ages making that for him. “Yes, it is.”
“No. That’s a dead bug in a jar.”
“It’s a rosy maple moth!” I bark, waving my arm as if it’s obvious.
He looks at me blankly, uncrossing his legs and sitting forward, still not looking too closely at the diorama, other than a quick sidelong glance.
The same treatment I’m giving to his bare legs. Those fucking legs, man. Why are they so nice?
“And?” He shakes his head, lifting a brow in challenge. Gone is the meek and quiet boy who I fell in love with; in his place is someone feistier.
It does things to me.
“It represents…” I pause, trying to remember the emotional meaning and not just nerdy entomology facts. “Healing and shit.”
He rises to his feet, leaning his weight on his fingertips against the desk, the candy stick still pinned between his fingers.
He’s tiny.
He’s not even standing up straight, either.
Yet somehow, he makes me feel so fucking small when he speaks.
“Healing.” Heat flashes in his eyes. “And shit?”
Somebody help me. Where’s that little French bastard when you need him? I need to use him as a body shield.
“Yeah, like…because you…” I don’t know what it is about feeling like I’m gonna be eaten alive by a five-foot-six twink, but I lose the ability to speak, my tongue becoming thick and useless in my mouth.
In my mortification, I lose my battle with maintaining eye contact, dropping my gaze. It snags on the necklace dangling around Bellamy’s neck—the one that I tortured myself over whether to give him, because I was young and had feelings I didn’t know how to cope with.
He was the one who taught me that love was a real, tangible thing and not something people made up to capitalize on Valentine’s Day.
An alarming tide of emotion charges up my esophagus, choking the breath out of me. I noticed the necklace the first day he started here, but the realization hadn’t sunk in until now. He still wears it.
He.
Still.
Wears.
It.
“Why did you keep it?” I breathe, stepping forward, fingers twitching with the need to reach out and touch it.
Seven years. Seven years, and it still has a home against his chest.
He’s confused for a moment, but then he lifts his hand, clutching the necklace in his palm. His mouth parts, blue-tinged tongue darting out to wet his lip.
“I…” he starts, but his eyes harden. It tugs on my heartstrings until they unspool into the space between us. He clears his throat. “…it’s important to me.”
