Chapter Thirty-Three
When Morgan pulled into her driveway, the house across the street was already alive with the after party. I could see Jack’s truck in the driveway, he and Emily piling out of it. We sat in the darkness until they went inside.
Morgan chewed on her lip for a second, tugging at the neckline of her blue dress, and I could tell she had been itching to take it off all evening.
But I could also tell she had something she needed to say to me, and I didn’t want to rush her into it no matter how badly I was aching to go upstairs and see August.
Her bright eyes flickered toward the steps in the garage as if she could read my mind before she let out a heavy sigh and said, “Whatever you do up there tonight is going to change him. I hope you know that, Lola. My brother…he isn’t built like you.
He’s as good at ignoring his feelings as he is at hiding them.
By which I mean he sucks at it. So, if you’re going to do something…
meaningful,”—the corners of her mouth twitched with a grimace she was trying to hold back—“then make sure it means something to you too. Okay?”
I nodded slowly. I wanted to say okay. I wanted to tell her that everything that happened between August and I meant something to me. But I wasn’t sure she would believe me, so instead I hugged her and said, “You look so lovely tonight, Morgan.”
The corners of her mouth dipped down briefly before stretching into a tight smile. “Good night, Lola.” She left me standing in the dim lighting of the garage alone.
I climbed the stairs leading to August’s room slower than I needed to, my pulse pounding hard enough to make my fingertips numb. Every step toward August felt like stepping farther from the version of myself everyone else knew how to love.
When I knocked softly against the door, I heard movement immediately, like he’d been waiting right on the other side of it. The door swung open.
August stood there looking like sin wrapped up neat and pretty enough to pass through church doors unnoticed.
His black button-down was tucked carefully into dark slacks, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the veins in his forearms. His combat boots looked freshly cleaned.
His hair—newly dyed black—had been combed back from his face, exposing the peak of his cheekbones and the nervous flush already blooming warm beneath his skin.
He wasn’t wearing the usual armor of silver rings and chains. Just one thin band around his left pinky finger.
For a second neither of us spoke, just stood there taking each other in like we might be able to commit it to memory. Then August held out his hand toward me, palm open and waiting.
“You look so beautiful, Lola.” The whispered words landed somewhere dangerous inside me.
I slipped my hand into his, and the second his fingers closed around mine, warmth rushed straight up my arm. He tugged me gently into him until my chest brushed his, his free hand settling instinctively against the small of my back like it belonged there.
“So do you,” I whispered. His expression shifted into something hungry.
August’s hands slid slowly up my spine, fingertips counting each vertebra through the thick fabric of my dress, and a shiver rolled through me so hard I nearly lost my footing.
He dipped his head, brushing his lips against the bare slope of my shoulder, and I inhaled sharply at the feeling of it.
He smelled like cedar soap and the kind of conditioner that came in those tiny silver tubes with boxed hair dye.
He pulled me farther into the room.
“My shoes,” I whispered automatically as we crossed the threshold.
“It’s fine,” he whispered back immediately, like the rules had stopped mattering the second he saw me. That alone made my stomach twist.
August guided me toward the bathroom, his hand never leaving my back. When he pushed open the door, I stopped short.
The tiny room glowed gold. Cheap metallic streamers hung from the ceiling alongside paper stars exactly like the decorations back at Formal, except prettier here somehow, reflected endlessly in the bathroom mirror and softened by dozens of battery-operated candles crowded across the vanity.
Their fake flames flickered against the glossy white walls and turned the cramped room warm and dreamlike.
It looked like someone had tried to recreate heaven using dollar store supplies. My chest ached at the sight of it.
August shut the door quietly behind us before reaching toward his phone resting on the counter. Music crackled softly from the speaker—gentle piano notes unfolding slow and familiar.
“Is this…” I laughed breathlessly. “Is this a classical cover of Teenage Dirtbag?”
August nodded once, lips twitching upward. “I thought it was fitting.”
A startled laugh escaped me, the sound bouncing softly off the bathroom walls. “You are nothing if not poetic, August Brooks.”
He reached for my hand again before I could say anything else, threading our fingers together carefully, as if a fragile thing lived between our palms. His other hand returned to my waist and he began swaying us slowly beneath the dangling stars.
I looked up at the decorations again. “How did you even get these?”
August shrugged with a crooked smirk. “I might’ve had help from a certain cheerleader on the planning committee.”
I shook my head immediately. “That sneaky bitch.”
“She loves you,” he said softly.
A dry laugh scraped its way out of me. “Believe me, I know.”
I rested my head against his shoulder as we turned slowly in the cramped little bathroom. His heartbeat thudded hard beneath my cheek. For a little while neither of us spoke.
Then August asked quietly, “Did you have a good time tonight?”
I closed my eyes. “I missed you the whole time.”
His fingers dragged lightly across the back of my shoulders, slow enough to make my skin ache. “You can miss me and still have a good time with them.”
I shook my head against him. “That doesn’t feel true anymore.” My voice sounded small to my own ears. “I think missing you feels too large lately. Makes it hard to feel anything else when all I can think about is how I’d rather be with you.”
August’s steps faltered. I felt his heartbeat palpitate violently beneath my cheek.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out rough and careful. “I feel that way too.” His hand tightened slightly at my waist. “Every time you leave this room, I think you take part of me with you.”
My eyes burned instantly. I tilted my head back to look at him. Candlelight flickered gold across his face, catching in his dark blonde lashes.
“I don’t want to do this anymore, August.”
His expression crumpled so quickly it hurt to look at. He nodded once, tightly. “I understand.” And he started to pull away. Panic surged through me instantly. I grabbed him harder, clutching fistfuls of his shirt.
“No,” I breathed. “No, I mean—” My throat tightened painfully. “I don’t want to just exist in this room with you anymore.”
August froze completely.
“I want you everywhere,” I whispered. “All the time.”
Something raw split open across his face then. His mouth twitched like he was trying not to break apart in front of me.
“I told you,” he said softly, voice shaking now, “you have me.” He swallowed hard. “Your God made you with too much gravity, Lola, because everything inside me bends toward you.” His thumb brushed shakily against my waist. “Anywhere. Always. I’m yours.”
The words hit me so hard I thought they might bruise. “Say you want me back,” I whispered.
August looked almost wounded by it. “Of course I want you.”
“Tell me to break up with him.”
Immediately, August shook his head.
“Lola, I can’t give you what he can.” His voice sounded strained now, uneven around the edges. “I’d never ask you to choose.”
Frustration surged hot through me. “I want you to,” I said desperately. “I want you to tell me you want me bad enough that you can’t stand the thought of someone else having me.”
August shut his eyes. When he opened them again, they glistened beneath the candlelight.
“I can’t stand it,” he admitted quietly. “But it would be selfish of me to ask you to give up something I can’t replace.”
I shook my head violently.
“I don’t want it, August.” My voice cracked apart. “Even if you never touched me again—as long as I got you every other way—it would still be better than faking it with anyone else.” Tears blurred my vision. “I can’t take another fucking day pretending I’m not in love with you.”
August looked up toward the ceiling sharply like he was trying to keep himself together by force. His chest rose unevenly beneath my hands. Then he looked back down at me. His voice broke completely.
“I’m so in love with you that even the demons in my head feel softer when they say your name.” A shaky breath left him. “And it’s still the only goddamned thing I want to hear for the rest of my life.”
August slipped the thin antique gold band from his pinky finger. He turned it slowly between his fingers before taking my right hand carefully in both of his.
“I made this for you.” He slid the ring gently onto my finger. At first glance it looked like a ruby set into the oval bezel. But when I looked closer beneath the resin coating, I realized the red stone wasn’t a gem at all.
August rubbed his thumb nervously against my knuckles. “I know the honey ones are your favorite,” he murmured, almost embarrassed now. “But I figured if I used a cherry one, you could tell people it was your birthstone.”
Something inside me shattered quietly. Before I could speak, August reached into his pocket and pulled out a second ring, sliding it over his own ring finger.
But instead of a cough drop set beneath the resin, there was a folded yellow wrapper pressed flat inside the oval frame. The tiny blue letters stared up at me: ‘Keep Going!’
August laughed softly through his nerves.
“Wyatt thought I was an absolute lunatic when I stayed after class that day digging through the trash to find this stupid thing.” He shook his head once.
“But I had this voice in my head telling me I should keep it.” His eyes met mine carefully. “For once, the voice was right.”
I stared down at the rings, my chest hurting so badly it felt like penance. Like standing in church with my eyes open while everyone around me prayed, and waiting desperately for God to speak back.
Only this time, something finally had.
My thumb brushed over the smooth resin coating the cherry cough drop, and emotion climbed so high in my chest it became unbearable. I looked up at him carefully.
“Can I stay tonight?” The question came out smaller than I intended.
“Will your parents notice if you don’t come home?” he asked carefully.
I shook my head. “I already told them I was staying with Lindsey.”
That earned a startled laugh out of him. “And they bought that?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “They know Pastor Spires would never allow me to stay overnight with Andy, so what else could I possibly be doing?”
August’s grin spread slow and crooked, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Surely not sleeping in a misfit’s bed.”
Warmth flooded through me at the thought. I laughed quietly. “Is that a yes?”
His expression softened instantly. “Yeah,” he said, almost shyly. “Of course it is.” August swallowed hard, his fingers tightened slightly around mine before he asked carefully, “Is it okay if I ask you to shower before we go to bed?”
The question was gentle. Embarrassed around the edges. I nodded immediately. “Yeah. “Do you want to shower with me?” I asked softly.
August went completely still. His eyes searched mine with something dangerously close to panic, like he was trying to figure out whether this was a trap he’d ruin by stepping into.
“You’re allowed to say no,” I whispered quickly.
August looked almost pained by that. “I don’t want to say no to you,” he admitted quietly. “Ever.” His voice roughened around the edges. “I just…”
The words died somewhere inside him. I understood anyway. It wasn’t me he feared. It was himself.
“It’s okay,” I said softly.
The relief on his face hurt worse than rejection could have.
August stepped away from me then, slow and reluctant, like peeling himself loose cost him something physical.
The loss of his warmth made the room suddenly feel colder.
He moved toward the shower, pulling back the curtain to turn the hot water on.
The shower hissed steadily behind us, filling the tiny bathroom with the smell of clean steam and masculine soap. I watched him for a moment beneath the candlelight—the nervous tension sitting high in his shoulders now that we’d drifted back toward reality.
Toward all the places his mind liked to hurt him.
“I’ll get you clothes to sleep in,” he murmured, as he tapped the handle three times.
A pause. Three more taps. A pause. Another three taps.
“That’d be nice,” I teased lightly. “I’d rather not sleep in this dress.”
He glanced over his shoulder at me, cheeks flushing that beautiful coral color again. “I mean,” he said dryly, “you could. But I think the fabric might wrinkle.”
I gasped softly. “You’re insulting my craftsmanship?”
“I would never.” But his smile lingered. It looked dangerous on him because it made him seem hopeful.