Chapter 14
Julian
Her eyes look dark gray right now, locked on mine, like storm clouds that perfectly mirror my thoughts.
The memories crash through my mind and settle in my chest. I haven’t spoken about this to anyone, not in any real detail.
Not even to Allie, although she knows more than anyone.
She’s so easy to talk to and she saved my life, but some of the darkest memories I keep to myself.
I’m not sure this girl—or anyone—can handle hearing any of it, let alone the dark parts.
I can barely handle the memory of it myself—which is why I try not to remember it at all.
But I want to tell her. I want to let her in.
Which fucks with my head, because I haven’t wanted to let anyone in before.
If I tell her, will she look at me the same after?
Like I’m some storybook hero sent here specially for her?
That might be what captures me most. The way she looks at me like I’m somebody.
It transports me back in time to the only other person to look at me that way—make me feel that way.
Like someone who matters. And that look lied to me that I could have a do-over.
I know I can’t turn back time and I know I can’t bring her back.
Not that kind of do-over. A do-over where I matter to someone again and let them matter to me.
Rubbing that place on my chest, the empty heart tattoo, I decide to rip the bandage off.
I’ll either send her running for the hills or plunge us both over the edge of the cliff.
God knows I can’t offer her the knight in shining armor she seems to think I am or could be. But damn if I don’t want to be.
How did I get here? Am I really going to let this girl in?
I’m clenching her foot in my hands like a lifeline.
“I did a lot, right after . . .” I pause, seeing it .
. . her . . . again in my mind for the first time in years.
“Drinking helped me go numb, try to forget.” I watch my hands clasp and unclasp her foot.
I swallow, my mouth dry. “When I was eighteen, my high school girlfriend died.” I pause, swallow again, my mouth filling with saliva now, my stomach churning.
“She didn’t just die. She killed herself.
And it was my fault.” I stop, turn my head, lock eyes with her and wait for the horrified expression I was sure would come, the judgment.
Instead, her stormy eyes go opaque and fill with unshed tears.
I turn my gaze back to her foot in my stilled hands. I don’t want to see the pity I know comes next. I start to move my hands from her foot, to leave.
She reaches out and grabs one of my hands in hers. “I’m so sorry that happened.” I lift my eyes back to hers and watch one tear spill and race down her cheek. I absently reach out to catch it and she leans into my hand. She closes her eyes at my touch, causing more tears to fall.
What is this girl doing to me?
“Ever . . . don’t cry.” I can’t stop myself. I reach for her and pull her slight frame onto my lap and wrap my arms around her—to comfort her, I tell myself, but the feel of her body in my lap, in my arms, comforts me. I bury my face in her neck and inhale deeply.
She does the same to me. Like mimes, we mimic each other’s moves.
My hand slides up her back to tangle in her hair.
Hers grabs the back of my neck to keep me there.
Her body curves around mine. Like a yin and yang symbol, we meld together.
And I feel her lips lightly press against the pulse in my neck, almost like she’s trying it out.
I hear the low mmm from her throat as I feel the vibration in her lips.
My body instantly reacts. And strangely, instead of fanning the flame, it douses it.
I move my hands to her shoulders and, squeezing, I gently move her off my lap and away from me.
“I . . . I’m . . . was that not okay?” She looks confused and embarrassed.
I fucking hate that I put that look there.
With my head in my hands, elbows on my knees, I answer, “No. Ever, it’s not that.
Look, we just . . . we can’t do this. I can’t do this.
I can’t be that guy. I’m not that guy. Okay?
” I can’t admit it to her, but I can admit it to myself.
I’m scared. Scared of what I feel. Scared of what I want.
And scared of how I’ll manage to keep my distance for the next three weeks.