Chapter 18
Nine Years Ago
Holland
Every year for New Year’s, my parents travel to New York City. And while they’re gone, my brother holds a party—every single year. He did it in high school, and he’s continued to do it in college when he comes home for winter break.
Every year he holds his New Year’s party, and every year I hide in my room with Maggie. We have a girl’s night where we watch movies and eat snacks and I paint her nails—blue, usually, because that’s the only color she really likes. Trev checks in on us throughout the night, and he brings us more snacks so we don’t have to venture out into the social hubbub. He’s a people person, a Golden Retriever; I am not.
But this year is different.
I mean, not horribly different—I still hide with Maggie. But usually I go to sleep after she falls asleep, the two of us snuggled up on the bed in my childhood bedroom. Tonight I don’t do that.
Because I know for a fact that Phoenix Park is here tonight, and I also know Trev invited some girl in a few of Phoenix’s classes, a girl Phoenix has had his eye on.
I’ve gotten to know Phoenix a bit better—since it turns out he’s Trev’s roommate. He’s not a partier or a flirt; he’s an observer, and if someone catches his eye, he watches them intently. He’s serious a lot of the time, but he has a dry sense of humor that comes out every now and then. He’s smart. He’s loyal.
He was rude about the tampon thing when we first met, but he’s warmed up a bit. Mostly he’s just impatient, with a low tolerance for anything he deems dumb or stupid or wrong.
I shouldn’t like him, but I do—just a little crush. And if I have to watch him get together with that girl from his classes, I’m going to cry—but at least I’ll be able to see it for myself, and then maybe I can put these silly feelings to rest.
Because a large part of my brain knows it’s never going to happen. He’s Trev’s best friend, three years older than me, and way out of my league in every way. His family owns some sort of company, so they’re filthy rich, and he’s tall and handsome and he wears a lot of suits.
The girl from his classes—Jewel, Trev said—is about his age; I saw her briefly when she first got here, before Maggie and I went to the bedroom. She’s pretty, and she and Phoenix clearly have similar interests if they’re in classes together.
She’ll be perfect for him.
I just…need to know for sure.
So I wait until Maggie falls asleep—my sweet, precious Maggie, whose cheeks are still the slightest bit round because she’s only twelve—and then I slip out of the room, making sure she doesn’t wake at the sound of the door opening and closing.
The hallway is cooler than the bedroom, and it’s a welcome relief. I fan my face with my hands, lifting my hair off my neck and fanning that too. I shouldn’t have worn this cardigan. I’m doubly irritated because Jewel is wearing one almost exactly like it.
It looks better on her.
I tiptoe down the hallway, listening for voices; as I expected, the party has congregated downstairs, in the basement. There’s someone clanking around in the kitchen, but other than that, it’s silent up here. So I round the corner and head down the stairs on gentle feet, making sure to skip the squeaky step, even though I know no one will hear me with how loud they’re all being.
The temperature drops several degrees by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, and the lights are off; the only illumination is the glow of my parents’ TV, large and shining blue as Trev conducts a conversation about what movie to watch—or maybe they’re debating which game to play? I don’t know. I’m too busy hovering there, scanning the clusters of people, looking for Phoenix and Jewel. I try to look casual, like I belong with this group that hasn’t even noticed my presence; I lean against the wall, my arms folded, as my gaze roves around the room.
I don’t see Phoenix anywhere, and I don’t know Jewel well enough to tell. Why did Trev have to turn the lights out?
I sigh. Everyone continues talking about what movie they’re going to watch, and that’s when I decide to take my pity party elsewhere. My cardigan is itchy and there’s a weight in my stomach and I keep looking for Phoenix and Jewel, but now that I’m here, I’m not sure I actually want to find them. So I push off the wall and stand up straighter, running my fingers through my hair again. I tug at the hem of my cardigan, trying to stop it from riding up.
“All right, ladies,” Trev says loudly from next to the TV. “Come look at our movie selection and pick something.”
The gaggle of girls go crowd around the entertainment center, but I don’t bother; I know Trev’s not talking to me. I just look at the TV as the screen changes and opening credits start rolling, watching vaguely as I try to place what movie they’ve chosen.
But I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I jump further when I hear Phoenix’s voice whisper in my ear from behind me.
“Meet me in the coat closet next to the stairs upstairs,” he says, and I shiver at the feeling of his breath on my neck.
Forget speeding up; my heart just stops altogether as he slips past me and heads toward the wet bar with two cans of soda in his hands, not looking back at me.
Meet him in the coat closet?
My mind reels, but my body automatically obeys, and I begin climbing the stairs. Why does he want to meet me in the coat closet? Does he want to talk to me?
Or—what if?—
No. No way.
I reach the top of the stairs and slip quietly into the coat closet, closing the door behind me. I leave the light off, because I can’t even begin to fathom what my face looks like right now. Flushed, definitely. But also bewildered and confused and stupidly hopeful.
No; the light will stay off.
I wait for only thirty seconds before the door opens. A sliver of light shines into the closet, and then it’s blocked as Phoenix slips quietly in. I can faintly smell his cologne, and it’s heavenly.
When he’s closed the door and the closet is black again, he whispers, “You here?”
I swallow. “Yes,” I whisper back.
I hear him hum, a deep, vibrating sound. “Good. ”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What do you want?” I whisper, sounding much more confident than I feel.
“Mmm. Isn’t that obvious?” he says with dry amusement. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you.”
My brain screeches to a halt. “I—what?” I forget to whisper, and I can hear my incredulity.
“You sound…strange,” Phoenix says immediately, and I can tell by his voice that he’s frowning. There’s silence for a second—while my mind implodes—and then he goes on, sounding less certain. “Did I misread this?” He clears his throat. “My apologies.”
Brain. Not. Working.
“Right,” he says, sounding unsure of himself. It’s a voice I’ve rarely heard. “I’ll leave.”
And that does it. My mind springs back into action, because Phoenix wants to kiss me, and he’s about to walk out of this closet.
My hand darts out, reaching blindly for him. When I make contact with his chest, I grab a fistful of his shirt and tug him closer. I hear his breath catch.
Am I doing this? I am. I’m doing this. I’ve been intrigued by this man for months.
“How long have you felt like this?” I whisper, because I need to know. I don’t want him to think I’m pathetic, to think I’ve been pining for him, but what if he’s been just as interested in me as I’ve been in him?
“How long have I wanted to kiss you?” he says, and from his businesslike tone, I can tell his confidence is back. I feel his hands suddenly, like the darkness itself reaching for me, and his fingers trail lightly from my arms to my shoulders to my face. One of his thumbs traces my lips, his touch softer and gentler than I ever would have imagined. My legs are approximately as steady as jelly .
“Yeah,” I say, trying to breathe. But riots of butterflies are fluttering inside, and electricity is coursing through me from his touch.
“Long enough,” he says, his voice low. “Since shortly after we met and you?—”
“Stop talking,” I whisper, cutting him off. “Stop talking and kiss me.” My words are breathy and impatient, but I’ve heard what I wanted to know, and I’m done waiting.
He doesn’t care. He exhales roughly, and the next thing I know, his lips collide with mine.
And I’ve died and gone to heaven. I’ve kissed guys before, but none of them have ever kissed me like this. Phoenix’s lips are firm, unyielding, and perfectly in sync with mine. His hands move from my face, and I feel his arms wrap around me, pulling me flush with him. I slide my hands up his chest and around his neck, holding onto him desperately, running my fingers through his hair. It’s so much softer than I ever thought it would be.
The kiss goes from intense to downright scorching, and as his lips move beneath mine, I can’t stop the tiny little sigh that slips from the back of my throat. His hands clench in response, digging into my sides as he deepens the kiss further.
All I can think about is the feel of his arms supporting me, the taste of him, the leather-and-mahogany smell of his cologne, the hard planes of his muscular body pressed against me. The sensational overload is almost too much for my brain to handle, and my mind goes blissfully fuzzy.
I gasp as his lips break away from mine, as I feel the oxygen rush into my lungs. There’s silence for a second, broken only by our ragged breaths intermingling. I can feel his chest heaving, and I know mine is doing the same. I rest my forehead against his, waiting until I can breathe steadily to speak.
But he beats me to it. “That,” he says, sounding shaken, “was…”
“I know,” I say. With a tinge of regret, I go down off my tiptoes, because my legs are starting to get shaky. He tugs me close, and when I rest my head against his chest, I can hear his heart racing.
I smile. I made his heart race. And he’s being so gentle.
“Jewel—”
I push away from him, and he breaks off.
A sick understanding is suddenly dropping like lead in the pit of my stomach, a dull roaring in my ears.
Jewel.
Jewel.
“Jewel?” I manage to say.
Silence. Terrible, condemning silence.
I feel blindly above my head until I find the string hanging from the ceiling. I pull it, and the closet light snaps on.
And his face, his beautiful face, morphs from wary confusion to complete and utter horror. “Holland?”
We stare at each other for a few seconds until I can’t stand to see his expression anymore. I look at the floor, only looking back up at him when he swears under his breath.
“This—it wasn’t supposed to be you,” he says, his voice tight, his jaw clenching. “It was supposed to?—”
“To be Jewel,” I say, ice spreading rapidly through my veins. “Yeah. I get it.”
“I thought—her shirt looks like yours. And her hair—” He gestures to my hair, which I guess is similar in color and length to Jewel’s, now that I think about it.
To my horror, I feel tears stinging my eyes. And despite the cold numbness spreading through me, my whole body is on fire—from humiliation, from embarrassment, from that stupid kiss. I begin tugging at the buttons of my cardigan, and Phoenix’s brows fly to his hairline.
“What are you doing?” he says. “Don’t take your shirt off?—”
“I have something on underneath,” I snap. I tug the cardigan off, and the temperature becomes moderately more bearable.
“That hardly qualifies as a shirt,” he says, gesturing at my tank top. His eyes linger on it for a second, and then they dart away. He swears again.
“Language,” I say, not bothering to keep my tone polite. This might be the worst day of my life. I put my hands on my hips. “And for someone so clearly opposed to kissing me, you seem to like how I look.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw as he clenches it. “I don’t have any particular feelings about how you look.” His eyes fly back to mine, dropping to my lips and then away again. “And even if I did, I’d still know that kissing you is a stupidly bad idea.”
Well, if that isn’t just the loveliest slap to the face.
He shifts his weight. “I made out with Trev’s sister,” he mutters, staring at the floor and running his hand through his messy hair.
This is a nightmare.
“Nothing happened,” I say, staring fixedly at the wall. I hate how tremulous my voice is, that my weakness is so obvious. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that it was an accident. Just forget about it.”
He’s silent for a second. “Holland,” he says, his voice strained but surprisingly kind. When I look up at him, I see the worst thing I’ve seen from him yet, far worse than his horror: pity. “It’s not personal. But—you’re only eighteen. And I’m?—”
But I can’t stay. I can’t listen to any more. So I push past him, out of the closet, and rush to my room. I lock the door behind me and cry myself to sleep while Maggie slumbers peacefully on.