Chapter 8 Adrian #2
He leans in, breath brushing my cheek, lips just shy of mine. “You always say the right things, Adrian, right until you don’t.”
I can’t move or respond. My hands hang useless at my sides.
My chest feels cracked wide open, but nothing spills except the tension and electricity of every year we’ve spent apart.
My hands start to rise, itching to grip his hair and neck, finally letting the reality sink in that Vince is close enough for me to do just that.
Then he steps back, forcibly steadying himself, like moving too fast would shatter us both.
There is no storming off this time, no slammed doors.
He retreats in measured steps, leaving me standing in the darkness with a heart too heavy to describe, caught between longing, grief, and something more that has never left us.
Later that night, I lie half-awake in the quiet of my room, the darkness pressing in around me like it knows all the things I cannot say.
Holly is staying in her friend Dinah’s room again with the other bridesmaids after I insisted I’d rather have her enjoy the night and do whatever pleases her.
I know she’s probably got some activities planned with them, likely the same sort of mischief, messy and electric fun that Trevor and I have had with the boys.
She won’t tell me the details, of course, but the teasing hints in her texts, making it clear they’re enjoying themselves safely and responsibly, and with that kind of reckless abandon only youth and trust can give.
I can’t help but reflect on how this arrangement between Trevor and Becca works, how they’ve carved out a space for freedom and indulgence without crossing lines that matter, and I wonder if Holly and the others are finding that same balance tonight.
A sharp knock at the door cuts through the quiet.
My pulse jumps before my mind can register who it might be.
I sit up, heart hammering, and open the door.
Vince stands there, the hallway light catching the hard angles of his face, the weight in his shoulders, the way his eyes search mine like he’s hunting something he lost years ago.
After everything that passed between us on the beach tonight, with all the raw confrontation and the tearing at old wounds left bleeding in the salt air, I didn’t expect this.
His eyes hold something fierce and unspoken, tangled with anger, frustration with longing, and beneath it all a familiarity so raw it hurts. I step aside and let him in, the air between us hums with everything we have left unsaid.
He sits heavily on the edge of my bed, then lies back with a sigh that sounds like defeat. I join him, lying down beside him, and the silence stretches.
“Are you hiding from the crowd?” I murmur. “You’ve had eyes on you all week.”
He makes a sound in his throat, something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Don’t remind me.”
“Well, what’s a football star to do? Half of the resort wants your autograph, and the other half wants your room key. I’m honored you came to hide here instead.”
He turns his head slightly, though his eyes stay on the ceiling. “Maybe I just wanted to go to someone who doesn’t expect anything.”
The words hit me harder than they should. Here he is seeking refuge in the last place logic would suggest. I am the one he has been running from, but also the only one familiar enough to feel like a sanctuary.
I roll onto my side so I can look at him, though his gaze remains fixed upward. “Or maybe you’re just tired of running away.”
He doesn’t answer, but the silence isn’t angry this time. It’s heavy and uncertain, but not closed off.
To break it, I start talking about the past. “Remember that day in art class? When Jackson somehow managed to fling clay across the room, and it landed square in your hair? Ms. Henderson made you sit with it the entire period. She said it gave you character.”
A low sound escapes him, the closest thing to laughter I’ve heard from him in days.
“You threatened to shave your head if anyone brought it up again,” I continue, smiling despite myself. “Half the class couldn’t stop staring. It was glorious.”
This time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly against the pillow. The sound loosens something tight in my chest.
“My friends,” I start again, voice softer now, “They used to shove me toward you all the time, thinking if I got close to you, they’d get close to you too.”
Vince quirks an eyebrow. “And did you?”
“Did I do what?”
“Play along, let them use you to get close to me? Is that why you befriended me?”
I shake my head, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “I’m not that noble. I wanted you all to myself. So, no, I didn’t become friends with you for their sake.”
Vince lets out a low chuckle, the sound easy and familiar, but carrying that edge like a warning and a memory all at once.
We fall into silence again, but it feels different now.
It does not feel final or hopeless. His breathing steadies, and I notice it begins to fall into rhythm with mine.
Our arms are close enough that the back of his hand brushes against mine, whether by accident or choice, I can’t tell.
I don’t move it away. He doesn’t either.
Somewhere in that quiet, my body grows heavy and my eyes close. The comfort of him being there, wordless but near, is enough to pull me under.
When I wake up, pale morning light seeps through the curtains. The other side of the bed is empty. His place is cold, the sheets smoothed as though he was never there. There is no note, no trace beyond the very faint smell of smoke and salt that lingers in the air.