Chapter Twenty-Five. Reid
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
REID
THE DAY OF LEGACY BANQUET
@haikuforyou
The world is burning
But no hotter than I do
for each inch of you
I SURFACE SLOWLY? SHEETS tangled around my torso. Warmth all around me. My limbs are heavy, my mind, for once, is quiet.
It’s still early, but … I feel rested.
I inhale deeply and catch my favorite floral scent as if I’m still in a dream. But it’s too real, too present. My eyes slit open.
Weak predawn light nudges at the window, and it’s just enough to be able to see an empty glass on my nightstand that wasn’t there before, and the wild waves of dark hair splayed across the pillow next to me.
Clara’s hair.
She’s here. In my bed. I take in the rest in increments; her entire body curled around me like ivy, one leg tucked between mine, an arm on my chest. Our hands are linked together. Even in sleep.
That pries something in me already burning to open.
How did this happen? I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to remember. There are only pieces and flashes. We were at the show. I downed more wine than food or water or air. I tried to fight Josh? And I vaguely remember being jostled back home.
Clara standing by my bed. Asking her to stay.
But when she agreed and actually got in beside me, I was sure it was a dream.
A dull pain shoots up my other arm, which is trapped beneath her. With a wince, I do my best to free it smoothly, but I rustle her and an adorable, protesting little grumble sounds from the blankets.
When I peel the comforter back from her face, my breath gets stuck. I love that I get to see her like this. At least once. Her eye makeup is smudged and her lips a little swollen from sleep. For all that we’ve shared, we’ve never woken up together in the morning. We had a lot of firsts left.
She looks so peaceful that I try to extract myself without waking her. But just as I untangle our legs, she tightens her grip on my hand, and her eyes flutter open.
I wait for her to freeze or back away. But she doesn’t.
A small smile curls her mouth as her eyes meet mine, and the deep hurt we share longs to slip away, forgotten. But without that hurt, that distance between us, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to leave for Stanford tomorrow.
“What time is it?” Her husky voice is raspier with sleep.
I check and it’s not even seven.
“I should probably get home,” she murmurs.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll take you.”
Only, instead of getting up, she hugs me closer.
Wrapping both arms full around me until there’s no space left, she nuzzles her face in the crook of my neck.
There is no one on this planet who loves to cuddle as much as Clara Suarez.
I thought I remembered how good it felt, but the reality is so much better.
What changed? I’m afraid to ask and risk ruining this moment.
I run my hand down the length of her back. “I forgot about Kolara,” I say, amused.
Her voice vibrates against my chest when she groans. “That was the worst one.”
“Oh, c’mon, it was clever. You cuddle like a koala, your name is Clara. Kolara. Perfect nickname.”
She tsks, and I can picture her smiling eye roll.
I close my eyes, savoring the feel of her in my arms. “I stand by it.”
“Okay, RiRi.”
I laugh. It feels strange. And good. I don’t know what territory we’ve crossed into now, or even how we did it, but there’s an ease between us that hasn’t been there since last year.
Despite how good this feels, my knee is stiff and sore. I apologetically maneuver myself and stretch my arms high over my head. Cool air hits my stomach where my shirt rides up. Clara eases off me, her cheeks pink, which fills me with a feeling dangerously close to smug.
“Be right back.” She hops off the bed and uses the adjoining bathroom.
Then I do, too. While I brush my teeth, I prepare myself for the inevitable.
Clara will be sitting in the living room when I get out, ready to go.
Ready to put distance between us again by pretending like this never even happened. Whatever it was.
But when I emerge, she’s settled back on the bed, sitting upright. Waiting for me instead of hiding from me.
“How’re you feeling? Did you sleep?” she asks.
I nod and perch beside her again, leaning back against the headboard. Best sleep I’ve had in months, I think ruefully. “Pretty sure you saved me with that water. I’m never drinking again.”
She tries to laugh, but it doesn’t quite get there. When she turns toward me, the sleeve of her shirt slips down her shoulder. I quickly flick my gaze upward to stare at the ceiling. If I keep looking at her rumpled in my bed I won’t be able to stop myself from crashing my lips to hers.
Which would be a very bad idea.
“I heard something last night I need to ask you about,” she says, her tone turning the air serious.
Never good words in Woodhurst. “Okay…”
“Did you really try to give up your Legacy spot for me?”
My pulse picks up. It was never something I wanted her to know since it hadn’t worked. Which made no fucking sense. But there’s no point in lying to her about it now, so I nod.
Anyone else might hug me or cry. Instead, she smacks me, right in the chest.
“Ow.”
A shocked laugh escapes as I rub the spot. There’s the Clara I knew.
“How could you do that? I never wanted you to hold yourself back for me. Ever.”
I don’t like the way she says that. Like she’s someone who isn’t worth bending—even breaking—for.
“I also have my athletic scholarship; it would’ve been okay.”
She frowns. “That only covers part of your tuition. You told me that having both was a big help to your family. You deserve them. Why would you do that?”
I meet her gaze. “Because you deserved it, too.”
She’s so close I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. Emotions I could never name pass through them.
I look away first.
“It won’t matter much longer since I’m probably going to get kicked out anyway.”
Her gasp is loud in the quiet room. “Because you’re injured?”
“No,” I sigh. “Because I’m failing. I just found out I’m on academic probation.”
It’s a weird relief to finally say it out loud. But she doesn’t respond right away. In the silence, the sounds of the birds outside filter in as the mountain wakes up.
She shifts to lean back against the headboard beside me, her expression a bit stunned. “Then shouldn’t they give you a tutor or extra credit or something? I mean, they can’t just kick you out. You’re the state champion—”
I scoff. “Yeah, me and every other guy on the team. But I’m the only one who can’t seem to keep up with it all. If I lose my scholarships, that’s it. We can’t afford it otherwise.”
“Is that what your dad said?”
I shrug, and understanding crosses her face. I don’t have to respond for her to know.
“You haven’t told him?”
“He’ll freak.”
“Yeah. And he’ll help,” she says simply. “Reid, you can’t keep this from him. You can’t figure this out alone.”
Frustration starts to claw at me. I do my best to keep it at bay. “What difference does it make?”
“Whether or not you finish college? A pretty big difference.”
“It’s just—” I stop myself.
She scoots closer, crossing her legs under her. “What?”
“I thought it would feel different—when I finally got to this level.” At her silence, I scrub a hand across my jaw, the stubble scratchy against my palm.
“Like all the hard work would’ve meant something.
But it’s … hollow. I’m not sure it even matters to me.
” My voice catches, and I clear my throat.
“I know that makes me sound like a prick.”
She shoves me lightly. “Not possible.”
I shrug like that isn’t the point and stare at my hands, which are bunched around the sheets.
Her voice is quiet but firm when she says, “You give your jacket to anyone who looks cold, you made even the slowest person on the team feel like they mattered because you stayed until everyone crossed the finish line, you’re honest in a way that makes people trust you, you believe in others more than they believe in themselves. ”
Her gaze snags on something behind me.
“And your favorite character from Glass Swords is Ziva.” She leans across me to grab one of the dog-eared books from my nightstand and holds it up for emphasis. “Ziva. The sworn-shield with the heart of gold who everyone else in the fandom forgets about.”
She’s so close now—our shoulders pressed together, the lilac scent of her hair present with every breath—and all I can think to say is, “Because the kingdom would’ve collapsed without Ziva. He never surrendered.”
Her expression is pained and understanding all at once. “It’s okay to surrender sometimes.”
I’m completely thrown by the care in her tone. I swallow, try to keep my bearings. I stare at the poster that sits on the wall opposite from us of the quote I told her about. The one that’s motivated me throughout my entire journey as a runner:
To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.
“No.” I set my jaw, ashamed of myself for even hinting at giving up. “I can’t stop.”
She reaches toward me and slowly threads our fingers together. I blink down at our hands, and how they just fit. We always fit. Touching in our sleep is one thing, but this … what is this? Pity? Guilt?
Or something else?
She squeezes, and my thumb brushes across the back of her hand in response.
“Look at me,” she says.
It’s a quiet but forceful command that raises the hair on my arms. The air becomes charged and alive between us as my gaze drags up slowly, following the path I wish my lips could.
The bare skin of her shoulder, her long neck, the freckle on her cheekbone.
It finally lands on her eyes, smudged and gorgeous—a soft jade in the light.
My heart slams hard against my ribs as I stare into them.
Harder when she says, “You have so many gifts.”
Jesus, I can’t take it anymore.