Chapter 25
He arrives at eleven thirty, almost a full half hour after Gus and his other friends showed up. And he’s not alone. Macie is beaming up at Sawyer like he just told the world’s funniest joke. Highly unlikely since any sense of humor is buried under a whole lot of brooding.
I turn away, refocusing on Aaron. “Wanna go upstairs?”
“Yeah.” He downs the rest of his beer in one hasty gulp. “Upstairs. For sure.”
I grab his hand and pull him toward the staircase.
We pass Abby, who winks at me. And Gus, whose expression is impassive.
I avoid eye contact with Sawyer’s best friend, even though I’m doing absolutely nothing wrong.
It’s just that Gus was the only person who ever seemed supportive of me and Sawyer being …
anything, so it feels strange to flaunt how, now, we’re … nothing.
I’ve never been to this house before, but there’s a guest room off the landing that’s easy to navigate to.
I pull Aaron inside, shut the door, and press back against it, my spine flush with the firm wood.
The bed would be much more comfortable, but I haven’t decided how far I want this to go.
Plus, I don’t know Aaron that well. Easy exit.
Aaron’s chest rises with a deep breath before he steps closer and kisses me.
It’s brief. More of a brush than a kiss. I’ve barely registered the contact before it’s gone.
Aaron is studying me, his head tilted a little to the left. “Huh,” he says, making the word sound like a discovery.
“Huh?” I repeat, sounding … confused.
Effusive praise isn’t necessary, but I’m accustomed to more of a reaction than just a solitary syllable.
Aaron takes a step back, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah, I—” He exhales for so long that I’m not sure the sigh will ever stop. “Can I tell you something? Something I’ve never told anyone?”
I say, “Sure,” even though I’m apprehensive.
If he confesses to a murder or something, am I legally obligated to report the crime anyway? I’ll have to ask Rory. As a hypothetical, of course.
“So, I think I might be … gay.”
“Oh,” I reply, relieved. Then I register his nervous expression and immediately add, “That’s cool.”
Aaron wanders away, taking a seat on the end of the bed. “I wasn’t sure … I mean, I thought maybe there was a chance that I—but if kissing you wasn’t … I think I am.”
I sit down beside him. Not speaking, just listening.
“I also, uh … you know Cap? He works at the marina. I don’t actually”—he chuckles awkwardly—“even know his real name. But he’s … fuck, he makes me nervous. He must think I’m a complete idiot because I can’t focus on anything around him.”
“He is distractingly hot,” I say.
Aaron chuckles. “Yeah, he is.”
“But who cares what he thinks?” I ask, a motto I’m personally striving hard to internalize. I nudge my shoulder against Aaron’s. “How come you’ve never told anyone? If you don’t mind me asking, that is. We don’t have to talk—”
“No, it’s fine. I just—I wasn’t sure, and there was no one I felt like I could …” He glances at me suddenly. “Don’t—you won’t tell anyone, right? I’m not sure I’m ready for …”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I assure him quickly. “I swear.”
He relaxes. “Thank you.”
I hold out a hand. “Give me your phone.”
“My … why?” He’s already pulled it out.
“Unlock it. I’ll give you my number, in case you ever want to talk.”
Aaron hands me his phone, opened to a new contact. I type in my number, then pass it back to him.
“I’ve wanted to ask for your number for weeks.” He smiles ruefully, staring at the screen.
“Congratulations. You got it.”
“Thanks, Wren. Really.”
“Of course.” I nudge his shoulder again. “I mean it. Use it whenever.”
“I will.”
I stand, sensing he might want a minute alone. “See you downstairs?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “See you downstairs.”
I leave, getting pulled into a conversation with a couple of the other waitresses as soon as I reenter the kitchen.
I procrastinate until the last possible second, but finally announce that I have to go, shooting Aaron a flirty wink as I pass him by on my way to the front door.
The guys surrounding him hoot and holler, and I doubt a single one would guess what really happened upstairs.
Outside, I suck in a deep breath of cool, salt-scented air.
For someone who grew up in hectic New York and chose a smoggy city for college, I’m coming to love the uninhabited presence of having the ocean nearby.
Of no sound, except for waves pounding sand or seagulls shouting commentary, and the space it allows you to think.
Not that my thoughts have been an amiable companion lately. And they become even more volatile when I reach the street and spot a tall figure leaning against the side of my convertible. I panic, register who it is, and freak out for an entirely different reason.
His arms are flexed, gripping the doorframe since I left the window and roof down, his posture casual.
Yet my heart riots in my chest like he’s a predator, poised to strike.
Because I’ve never told him—and I’ve done my damnedest to pretend otherwise—that he’s one of very few people with the power to hurt me. I know—because he has hurt me.
I suck in a deep, bracing breath as I reach my car.
Sawyer doesn’t look mad—doesn’t look anything—but I instinctively know this will be a battle. All of our recent conversations have been battles, with no clear winner or loser. With no clear purpose at all, which are the most dangerous conflicts.
“You leaving?” he asks without really looking at me. He’s staring in what I think is the direction of the ocean, jaw working a couple of times as a muscle there clenches, then relaxes.
“Yeah. Curfew.”
“Lame.”
“Says the guy who left the party to … lean against my car?”
Sawyer says nothing in response.
“Don’t fuck up the paint job,” I add snidely to emphasize I noticed he was out here waiting for me and for him to explain why.
He shoves away from the side of the car without sharing any reasoning. “Have fun?”
There’s a low, dangerous undercurrent to his question. One that suggests yes is the wrong answer.
“Yes.”
“Great,” he says, tone implying the opposite.
“I can do whatever I want, Cap.”
“You can,” he agrees, stepping closer.
Emboldened, I add, “It’s none of your business what I—”
Sawyer takes another step, and I fight the urge to backtrack and retain the same amount of distance between us.
Especially once he touches me, tilting my chin up and tracing my jawline with his thumb. I hold his gaze, defiant, and a grin ghosts across his face.
The many times I told myself I was over him? They’re such blatant lies all of a sudden. Aaron said Cap makes him nervous. Sawyer Bennett makes me forget there are other people on this planet.
“Just like being the first guy to fuck you was none of my business?”
My annoyance is increasingly slippery to hold on to. Truthfully, I’m thrilled he’s out here with me instead of inside with anyone else, acting jealous and territorial.
“That’s ancient histo—”
He kisses me, swallowing the rest of my rant into his mouth as he sucks on my tongue.
Some people are puzzle pieces. Being around them is effortless, like two pieces fitting together. It doesn’t mean it’s right; it doesn’t mean it’s reliable.
But that’s how I always feel around Sawyer—like I found my other half.
I don’t believe there’s some mysterious alchemy to kissing—it’s like holding hands, except mouths touching—but there’s some special sensation every time I kiss Sawyer, no matter where we are or how long we’ve known each other.
It accelerates instantly, like a match tossed on a steady stream of gasoline.
His hands are on my face, then roaming lower.
I slide my hands into his hair because I think about doing so every time I see him do it, but have always had to suppress the urge to.
As soon as I do, he kisses me harder. His tongue traces my lip, and I start to feel unsteady.
My arms fold around his neck, using the solid stretch of his shoulders for support.
Did he get more muscular since last summer or—
I’m kissing him back, I suddenly realize. Rather enthusiastically because I want to kiss him, but I did not want Sawyer to know that.
I withdraw my hands and yank my head away, separating our mouths. Only by a couple of inches since Sawyer’s still holding me so I can’t pull very far away. We’re too close for me to disguise how fast my breathing is, but I attempt to hide that I’m practically panting.
“Why did you do that?” I ask, hoping he catches the extra emphasis on the first word.
“I wanted to,” he replies, dropping his arms.
It’s not that chilly out, but I feel colder.
“Why?” I press.
He huffs. “You kissed me randomly, repeatedly, last summer. I can’t kiss you once?”
“No,” I snap. “You can’t. Because I did it before …”
“Before what?”
I cross my arms. “Do you really want to do this?”
“Do what?”
I can’t tell if he’s being deliberately obtuse or if he’s truly clueless. Neither is ideal. Both feed my irritation.
“Why do you think I came to see you on New Year’s?” I demand.
He shifts his weight between his feet, finally seeming to grow uncomfortable with the topic at hand. “Sex?” he suggests.
I scoff. “I can get that anywhere. I do get that anywhere.”
His jaw clenches. “I know what you look like after you’ve come, Wren. Whoever you went upstairs with either couldn’t get you off or nothing happened. My money’s on the latter.”
I hate that he’s using how I react to him against me. I hate even more that he’s right.
“What money?” I snap.
A dig I should feel bad about, probably, but that’s one thing I love about Sawyer: he gives it right back to me. If I’d said that to any other guy—and I do mean any other guy because I’m richer than all of them—they would have gotten defensive.
One thing I used to love about Sawyer, rather, because starting now, I’ve resolved to focus only on his flaws.
Sure enough, he smiles. “It’s an idiom, Wren. You might’ve learned about them … in English class.”
I want to shout, You wrote me back!
Instead, I dig in my heels. “It was the hardest I’d ever come.”
A cruel smile touches the corners of Sawyer’s lips. “You probably pretended it was me.”
I can’t come up with a cutting enough response. I’m too aware of the heat spreading through me, terrified of the way he’s invaded my inner thoughts. He’s not just tattooed on my skin. He’s deeper. Cells in my blood. Marrow in my bones. So entangled that I can’t remove him without cutting myself up.
I allow some honesty out. Maybe that’s the only way to excise him.
“I wanted more, okay? I thought we were more. That’s why I showed up on New Year’s. You obviously felt differently, so—”
“I never said that,” he interrupts.
“Right. You said, ‘Why?’ when you fucking knew why I was really there. That wasn’t humiliating enough? You need me to spell it out for you seven months later?” I shake my head, then move toward the car door.
Sawyer steps left, blocking me. “I’m sorry, Wren,” he says quietly.
“I don’t need an apology from you. I don’t need anything from you. I wanted things from you. I’ve moved on. You can’t decide you want me now because I did.”
“You think that’s why I’m out here?”
“I don’t know why you’re out here, Sawyer.”
He exhales. “I’m fucked up, Wren. I fuck up. You have no clue what you’re getting into with me, and I have no idea why you’d even want to.”
“Wanted to.” I emphasize the past tense.
One corner of his mouth curves up. “You kissed me back.”
“It was a reflex.”
“What about stroking my hair?”
“I wasn’t stroking.”
He hums, not really agreeing or disagreeing, and then his expression turns serious again. Tense too. “I really came out here to check … you’re okay?”
“Okay?” I echo. “Like, sober?”
“Yeah, that. And … the guy upstairs … he didn’t do anything …” He clears his throat. “Nothing, uh, happened that you didn’t want to happen?”
The only other time I’ve seen Sawyer so uncomfortable was when he showed up at the Red, White, and Blue party.
And I’m experiencing the same overwhelming, conflicting mixture of emotions now that I did then.
Because it’s confusing. Because I can’t tell if he truly cares or if he’s as indifferent as he mostly acts.
If this is the bout of not being an asshole he referred to or if this is a glimpse of him not hiding how he honestly feels.
I shake my head. “Thank you for … checking,” I say awkwardly.
He nods, stepping aside so I can reach my car.
I should leave. Probably. Definitely. But instead of grabbing the handle, I wind up mirroring Sawyer’s step so we’re still facing each other. And then rising on my tiptoes and wrapping my arms around him.
I’ve never hugged a guy who wasn’t related to me before. I sort of expect Sawyer to stiffen or to pull away, but he does neither. He rests his chin on the top of my head and folds his arms around my back. Then releases a breath that sounds like it’s been held for a while.
I don’t want to move. I want to move less and less with each passing second. He’s solid and warm, and he smells like Sawyer. I feel content and also exhilarated, like being held by him is the securest form of a thrill-seeking activity. Skydiving into a safety net.
He says nothing. Neither do I. Yet it feels like handing him another slice of my heart.
I have no sense of how long we’ve been standing here, but I eventually loosen my grip. His hands drop too. I dart my eyes around the street, wondering if anyone saw us and also looking anywhere except directly at him. “I, uh, I’ll see you?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice still that soft tone that I realize I’ve only heard him use with me.
“ ’Kay.” I finally climb into my convertible, wincing when I register the time on the dash. Even so, I’m tempted to linger longer.
I turn on the car, glancing in the mirror before I start driving to ensure there’s no oncoming traffic. And then again once I’m partway down the road to check if he’s still standing in the same spot.
He is.
I’m scared if I wait, it will never be me. If I move on, it will never be him.