16. Make You Mine
SIXTEEN
MAKE YOU MINE
Halle
We’re in the car on our way back home, music up and smiles cemented on both of our faces. Halfway through the drive, he reaches over and holds my hand lightly over the center console. I don’t want this drive or this night to end. Everything we did is flashing through my mind with each street we pass—the fair food, the Ferris wheel we didn’t kiss on (but I didn’t care, the moment wasn’t right), too many stolen glances to count, and trying but failing to win another stuffed animal.
Cade pulls onto our street and I reach across with my free hand to turn the volume down, not wanting to let go of his hand. We start to pull into the parking lot of the triplex and I think I see Abbott’s car parked right in front of my unit’s door. “Huh, that’s weird,” I mumble to myself.
Cade still managed to hear me, and asks, “What’s that?”
“Abbott’s car,” I say, pointing ahead at it. “Come inside with me? We can give them crap for bailing on us.”
“You don’t have to convince me to walk you in, Valentine.”
Thank goodness, because I don’t want to awkwardly end another first date on my front steps so soon. If he wants to kiss me, we can go in my closet or something—for old time’s sake. But this time, I’m going to wait for him to kiss me first. That way I’ll know it’s real.
I shiver as we walk up to the door, partly from how cold it has gotten, but mostly from the thought of kissing Cade again.
I unlock the door and start saying my piece as soon as I step inside, but quickly trail off when I realize they aren’t in the living room or kitchen to hear me. I walk up a few of the stairs until I can see that her bedroom door is open—but the light is off, so maybe they did go on some sort of date after all.
Cade pulls up their locations. “Looks like they’re still at the baseball field, must have been enjoying the sunset.”
He sets the stuffed tiger he carried in for me down on the kitchen island, and then lets out a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
He’s probably so annoyed that I ask him that every single time I hear him laughing to himself. It’s something that has stuck since we were kids.
“Nothing,” he says suspiciously and picks the tiger back up off the counter and starts running upstairs toward my room. By the time I catch up to him, he’s halfway through tucking the stuffed animal into my bed.
“What—”
“It was past his bedtime,” he cuts me off before I can get another word out.
“Is that your way of telling me it’s past your bedtime?” I ask nervously. I’m not ready for him to leave yet, for this night to end.
“I’m not in a rush, but if one of our bedtimes is creeping up, I think we both know it's yours, Valentine. One of us is a night owl, and it’s not you.” He laughs and takes a few steps closer to me. He reaches out toward me and brushes my hair behind my ear.
My breath hitches and my heart starts to pound in my chest. I look into his eyes and it gets harder to breathe. His thumb rests on my face, lightly stroking my cheek. My eyes shoot down to his lips; a few sparkles remain from my lipgloss, all these hours later. I close my lips and—no this can’t be happening, we can’t kiss right now, my lips are so dry.
I take a step back. “You win!” I bring us back to our bedtime debate. I grab his hand and start to lead us back down to the living room. I’m about to plop down on the couch when he pulls me around to face him.
“Dance with me,” he blurts out.
“What?” I ask nervously, too distracted by the lack of space between us to know if I heard him correctly, or if I’m imagining things.
“Do you hear the music?” He takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair.
I close my eyes and listen, and pick up the sound of bass vibrations coming from the other side of the wall. “Barely.” I chuckle. “I’ve got something better, I’ll be right back.” I skip the steps as I run back upstairs, and when I get to my room, I quickly dig through my vanity drawers for my chapstick. I pull out the first one I feel and put some on— vanilla , perfect. I snatch the speaker on my way out and turn it on as I run back down the stairs.
I open up my files on my phone and press play on the unreleased Tryhard EP demo files I have downloaded. One of the hidden perks of being their merch girl is early access to everything, and I mean everything .
Sometimes I think I hear some of the songs Cade’s writing before the rest of the band. Maybe it’s because the rest of the guys are still in school, so we’re the only two with loads of free time. Most of the time we just happen to be working on Tryhard stuff at the same time in the garage, but I also like to pretend it’s our special thing—that he plays for me while I work on designs.
The next twenty-two minutes are the most fun I think I’ve had in months. I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced something like this before. I even brought out a guitar Ruby left at our place a few months ago and gave him demonstrations of how he can move and play at the same time. I showed him videos of my favorite rockstars to fangirl over, which I don’t necessarily advise showing a date, but this was obviously for educational purposes. By the end of it, my throat was so raw from laughing and singing along, and I think I danced so much that I’m going to wake up embarrassingly sore tomorrow.
We call it a night after the dancing because Cade says he has a song he wants to work on before Tryhard practice tomorrow. Am I crazy for thinking he could be writing about me? I mean, he is about to go write after our date, so I feel like he might subconsciously be writing about me even if he isn’t trying to, right?
I pick his jacket up off the couch. “Can’t forget this.” I meet him in front of the door, where our end of date goodbye awaits.
“It would be very missed on my way home,” he says with a twinge of sarcasm. As he slides each arm through the sleeves, I can’t help but stare, and I think he notices me not so subtly checking him out.
“Thanks for indulging me in some nostalgic fun.” He steps closer to me, rubbing a hand up one of my arms. I give in to a hug instantly. I don’t know how he manages to make me melt so fast.
“Of course, thank you for taking me. It felt like old times, like home in a way.” I pull out of the hug and look up into his eyes. I don’t have time to prepare, or even think about what happens next.
His hands land on my shoulders and he takes another step to put himself even closer to me. My back hits the door, gently. His lips crash into mine. One of his hands moves to the nape of my neck and he twirls a strand of hair. This feels familiar, but not in a bad way. We’re finally letting it happen again.
It’s like we’ve been dolls, or puppets, waiting for someone to pick up our strings and put us together like this again. We don’t stop. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I don’t care. Until I hear Mel and Abbott coming up the few steps that we have; he must have heard them, too, because next thing I know, he pulls away, and then pulls me away from the door with him, stopping me from being hit when it opens the next second.
“Funny timing, I was just on my way out,” Cade greets them, running his hand through his curls.
Mel is eyeing us, hard. Abbott looks clueless. Cade trades places with them and once he steps outside the door, he turns back and leaves me with one last longing gaze into my eyes. His smile says it all. He turns to make his way down the steps and I try to calmly shut the door, but may have accidentally slammed it. I’m standing with my back against the door again, in a state of shock, now staring at Mel and Abbott instead of into Cade’s mesmerizing eyes. Mel has to practically peel me off the door.
I snap out of the love spell I’m in on the walk up the stairs to my bedroom. I hustle to change into comfy clothes so I can be ready to catch up with Mel—and Abbott, as much as he wants to listen.
I start looking through the baskets of sweatshirts and shorts in my closet but then my eye catches the sweatshirt Cade lent me the other night hanging over my desk chair. I slip into it and it still smells like him. I wonder if it will stop smelling like him soon.
My phone dings while I’m slipping into my pajama shorts, and I assume it’s Mel telling me to hurry up. It’s not. It’s him. I’m so scared to open it, but I feel like it can only be good if he’s texting this soon—like he can’t stop thinking about me.