Chapter 24 #2
Chicks go for that shit. They eat it up. The grand gestures. The public declarations. The proof that someone cared enough to plan something, to make an effort, to stand in front of everyone and say “this person matters to me.”
There’s no fucking way I could ever do that shit out in the open.
First of all, I don’t have the money to pull something like that off. Flowers and posters cost money I don’t have. Money that goes toward making sure I can pay Bells’ dad back someday for letting me crash at his house, even though he told me not to worry about it.
I might be able to scrape together enough for a sad bouquet from the grocery store, the kind wrapped in plastic and looking half-dead already. But roses from the florist? Yeah, that shit is definitely not happening.
But more than that, everyone here would see me as pussy-whipped if I carried on in the middle of the hallway with some glittery sign, getting down on one knee as if I’m some lovesick puppy who’s forgotten who the fuck he is.
Jace Cooper doesn’t fucking do that.
Except... Bells would probably love it.
Not the big public spectacle. She’d hate that, actually.
She’d turn red and tell me I’m embarrassing her and probably punch me in the arm for making a scene.
But the gesture. The effort. The fact that I cared enough to ask her properly instead of just assuming she’d go with me because we’re together and that’s what couples do.
And prom is important to her. I know it is.
She hasn’t said anything about us going, but I’ve heard her talking to Aubrey and Sam about their dresses, photos, dinner reservations, and all the other stuff girls care about when it comes to prom. I’ve also overheard Noah and Reece discussing the limo, dinner at a fancy Italian place downtown.
And I haven’t asked her yet.
Fuck.
I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t know how. Because I’m not the guy who does this. It’s too far removed from who I am.
But Bells isn’t just some girl. She’s my girl. And she deserves better than me simply assuming she’ll go with me. She deserves to be asked. Properly.
I’ll figure something out. Something that’s not a glitter poster, roses, or any of that other bullshit. Something that shows I care without being an idiot in front of everyone at school.
Something that’s... me.
She loves me, right? That has to count for something.
It’s late when I get home from work. Yeah, I call it home now because it’s the only home in my damn life that has ever felt like one.
I drive Bells’ car into the driveway, turn off the engine, and sit there for a second in the sudden quiet.
The house is dark except for the porch light left on for me when I get home.
Almost all of the windows are black, the kind of darkness that means everyone’s asleep.
Except for Bells’ room upstairs. Her window glows soft yellow, with the curtains drawn but the light seeps through at the edges.
Which means her dad went to bed early. He usually does these days, exhausted from physical therapy and the effort it takes to exist in a body that doesn’t work the way it used to.
The man who used to work twelve-hour shifts without breaking a sweat now gets wiped out after an hour of trying to relearn how to use his left hand.
It’s fucked up, all of it, but at least he’s home.
Which means Bells is upstairs in her room, probably doing homework even though it’s almost eleven.
Or she might be reading one of those romance novels she pretends she doesn’t read but definitely does.
I’ve seen the stack on her nightstand—covers with shirtless guys and women in ball gowns.
She gets embarrassed when I bring them up, telling me they’re trash and she only reads them to turn her brain off.
But I’ve seen her smiling at the pages, biting her lip, getting lost in whatever cheesy stuff is happening between the characters.
It’s annoyingly cute.
I sit in the car for a minute, the engine ticking as it cools, and grab the piece of paper from the passenger seat.
The one I made during my shift tonight when the diner was dead and I had nothing to do except wipe down tables that were already clean and think about how the fuck I was going to ask Bells to prom.
It’s black Sharpie on a sheet of white paper. The letters are large and messy, my handwriting is terrible because I was writing quickly, trying to finish before someone came in and saw what I was doing.
It’s not fancy. There’s no glitter. Definitely no flowers, cupcakes, or any of the unnecessary bullshit I saw at school today. But it’s me.
I stare at the paper for another second, my chest tight with something I can’t name. Maybe nerves. Or fear she’ll laugh. Or worse, that she’ll look at this pathetic excuse for a prom ask and realize she could do better. That she should do better.
But then I think about how she pulled me into her life and refused to let go, even when I gave her every reason to. That’s when I step out of the car.
The house is quiet when I enter, the only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house settling. I toe off my shoes by the door, leaving them next to Bells’ sneakers, and move through the dark living room toward the stairs.
I take them slowly, avoiding the spots I know squeak. Third step. Seventh step. The top one that groans if you put your weight on the left side.
When I reach Bell’s door, I stop. My heart is pounding harder than it should be. This is so stupid. It’s a fucking prom. Just a dance… a question. But it is so much bigger than that.
It’s proof that I’m trying. That I’m not the same asshole I was six months ago. That I’m willing to do the things that matter to her, even if it makes me feel like a pathetic idiot.
I turn the handle slowly and listen to the door creak open.
It’s not romantic at all. It sounds more like creepy horror movie stuff than a grand gesture. The hinges creak in the silence, and I half expect Bells to grab something off her nightstand and hurl it at me, thinking it’s Michael Myers coming into her room with a kitchen knife.
Maybe I should have rethought this approach. But it’s already too late now.
She looks up from her paperback, her eyes widening slightly when she sees me standing in the doorway.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, with a few strands falling loose around her face.
She’s wearing one of my old shirts—the black one with the faded band logo that she stole weeks ago and never gave back—and a pair of sleep shorts that make her legs look endless.
She’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
I hold the sign out in front of me, like the pathetic bastard who’s completely gone for her. The paper crinkles slightly in my grip, the black Sharpie’s bold and uneven letters across the white surface.
The sign says, in messy, large letters: BELLS, WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME?
For a moment, she just stares at it. Her eyes scan the words, reading them once and then again, as if she’s making sure she’s understanding it correctly.
Her face brightens into a wide smile that lights up her entire expression, and she laughs.
An unguarded sound that eases the nervous knot in my chest.
“Jace,” she says, setting her book down on the nightstand and getting onto her knees on the bed. She’s still smiling, but there’s something teasing in her eyes now. “You can’t just hold up a sign. You have to ask me.”
I lower the sign slightly confused. “I just did.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You have to actually ask me. With words. Out loud. A proper prom ask.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not,” she says, grinning wider now. “Come on. Do it right.”
I stare at her for a moment, this girl who’s turned my whole life upside down. Who makes me want to try, even when trying seems impossible.
I drop the sign on the floor, letting it flutter down to land face-up on the carpet, and walk across the room until I stop at the edge of her bed.
She watches me, her smile softening as her eyes stay locked on mine.
“Bells,” I start. “I know I’m not the guy who does the big romantic gestures. I’m not the guy with the flowers and the glitter and all that sappy shit you saw at school today. I don’t have the money for roses or cupcakes or whatever the fuck everyone else was doing.”
She opens her mouth, likely to say it doesn’t matter, but I continue talking.
“I don’t care about prom,” I continue, my voice dropping lower.
“I don’t give a shit about dancing or photos or any of it.
But I care about you. And I know how much it matters to you.
I know you want to go with your friends and wear some dress that’ll probably make me forget how to breathe when I see you in it. ”
She laughs and wipes her eyes under her glasses with her fingertips.
“So... Bells, will you go to prom with me?” I ask, and the words seem to carry more weight than they should. “Let me be the guy standing next to you when you walk in. Let me be the one who gets to hold you while we dance to some shitty song neither of us knows the words to.”
For a moment, she stays silent and stares at me with those wide, beautiful eyes before she throws herself at me.
Her arms wrap around my neck, and her body collides with mine so forcefully I stumble back a step. My hands instinctively go to her waist to keep us steady. She kisses me, her fingers threading through my hair and tugging in a way that makes my brain short-circuit.
“Yes,” she says against my mouth. “Yes, I’ll go to prom with you.”
I kiss her back, my hands sliding up her sides as I pull her closer, leaving no space between us. Her legs wrap around my waist, and I turn, sitting down on the edge of her bed with her straddling my lap.
“You’re such an idiot,” she says, pulling back enough to look at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Tears fall down her cheeks, but she’s smiling. “That was perfect.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my thumb brushing away the wetness on her face.
“Yeah,” she says, and she kisses me again. Softer this time.
And for the first time in my life, I think I might actually understand what all those sappy bastards with their glitter posters and roses feel.
Because her in my arms, smiling against my lips, saying yes, is better than anything I’ve ever felt.
Better than any high. Any fuck. Any fleeting moment of cheap pleasure I’ve chased my whole life trying to fill the emptiness inside me.
This is real. She is real.
And I’m never letting her fucking go.