Chapter 21 Past
The silence in his room felt louder now. Everything that had happened tonight circled in my head, refusing to sit still.
I blinked, trying to ground myself, but then the seventeen-year-old in me kicked in—loudly.
I’m in his room.
I’m sitting on Paul Newsome’s bed.
We just made out. Did we almost—
No. Stop.
Did we almost have sex?!
Is this love?
No. No, it’s too soon. You don’t love him—do you?
Bristol Anne Thompson! You are in Paul Newsome’s room!
My thoughts were racing so fast I could barely keep up with them. I needed to breathe.
Just then, the sound of the doorknob turning pulled me out of my spiral.
Paul stepped back in, his smile softer now—more at ease.
He shut the door quietly behind him, skipping the locks this time.
“Alright,” he whispered, “everyone’s asleep. I don’t even think my dad’s home.”
He walked toward me—calm and sure—then paused a few feet away.
“You can stay here tonight—take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
He meant it kindly, genuinely.
But the second the words left his mouth, his eyes flicked to mine and caught it—disappointment.
I hadn’t meant to show it, but it was there.
He let out a quiet laugh as he turned toward his closet, but something in that laugh made me wonder if he wasn’t entirely on board with the proposed sleeping arrangements.
He grabbed a t-shirt, then headed to his dresser and pulled out a pair of sweatpants.
“Here,” he said, handing them to me. “They might be too big, but they’ll be comfortable.”
Then, reaching for my hand, he led me toward the hallway.
“There’s a bathroom just down the hall.”
A part of me wanted him to stop me—wanted him to pull me close, look at me like he couldn’t wait another second.
But instead, I just smiled, took the clothes, and followed him out.
He walked with me to the bathroom.
At the doorway, I gave him a teasing side-eyed grin.
He smirked, hands tucked in his pockets.
“I need to brush my teeth,” he said casually, leaning against the frame. “And I was gonna show you where everything is.”
I stood by the vanity, his clothes folded tightly against my chest, as he stepped inside and crouched down—right in front of me.
His eyes never left mine as he opened the cabinet beneath the sink, rummaging for an extra toothbrush.
My cheeks flushed, heat creeping up my neck, as he stood—closer now.
I was looking up at him, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and nerves.
Clothes and tension were the only things between us.
He closed his eyes and let out a heavy exhale, turning away and bracing both hands on the sink.
“You’re making it very difficult to control myself,” he said, voice low.
I laughed softly, voice catching a bit. “Look who’s not so tough now.”
He chuckled, shaking his head.
“Alright,” he said, “I’m going to brush my teeth and let you get changed…”
Then, with a smirk and a flash of something deeper behind his eyes, “Before I show you just how tough I am.”
I lingered while he brushed his teeth, watching him flash a big, cheesy grin at himself in the mirror.
I rolled my eyes and tried not to smile too wide.
I expected him to leave when he was done—but instead, he turned toward me.
He took the clothes gently from my hands and set them on the counter.
Then his hands lifted to my face.
My arms instinctively wrapped around his waist.
He leaned down and kissed me—soft and slow, with the lightest sweep of his tongue across my lips.
When he finally pulled back, my eyes stayed shut, clearly wanting more.
He let out a quiet laugh and stepped out, closing the door behind him.
I stood there for a moment, lips tingling, heart pounding.
Then I turned toward the mirror—and groaned.
The feeling of total bliss was instantly replaced by something closer to horror.
My hair was a disaster.
I searched for a brush but couldn’t find one, so I did the best I could with water and fingers. It wasn’t perfect—but it’d have to do.
I splashed cold water on my face and the back of my neck, gave myself a little pep talk while pulling on the oversized t-shirt.
I couldn’t believe I was about to stay the night with Paul.
As I slid the sweatpants over my legs, I imagined telling Molly.
She was going to freak.
I could hear her thick southern voice already:
“Bri Thompson—you floozy—I’m so proud of you!”
I laughed to myself, then quickly brushed my teeth—and I gathered my clothes into a neat bundle. I checked the mirror one last time, smoothed the shirt down over my hips, and took a deep breath before opening the door.
Paul was waiting just outside.
Now in red plaid pajama pants, he stood with a look that made my heart stumble.
His eyes swept over me, slow and deliberate.
“You,” he said softly, “are so beautiful.”
Heat bloomed in my face again.
He stepped toward me, looking at me intently. We laced our fingers and walked hand-in-hand back to his room.
I stood in the center while he moved in behind me.
The sound of the door shutting and the soft clicks of locks turning echoed like a hush over the night.
The bed had been turned down.
There was no sign of a pillow or blanket on the floor.
I barely had time to react before I felt him wrap his arms around me from behind.
He brushed my hair over my shoulder and kissed the curve of my neck.
Everything I’d been holding slipped from my hands to the floor.
He turned me around slowly—and the flood of emotion I’d felt earlier came rushing back.
His lips found mine, and just like the heat lightning that once lit up the sky, my body sparked under his touch. We managed to make it to the bed without tripping over one another.
He slowly slid me up towards the pillows, his hands guiding my back.
The weight of his body on top of me was a welcome sense of pressure.
He reached over and turned the lamp off and it was just us—thunder in the distance, hands wondering, and two teenagers trying their hardest not to take it too far.
We made a silent promise to toe that line, but not to cross it—at least not yet.
We stayed close, letting our breathing slow, our hands still tracing gentle, unspoken thoughts on each other’s skin.
Eventually, the night gave way to early morning.
…
The sun was just coming up. I was lying on his bare chest, wrapped in the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the Alabama summer.
My fingers wandered before I even realized it, tracing the faint outline of a small scar near his collarbone. It curved slightly—just enough that, in my half-sleeping state, it felt like the letter B.
B for Bri.
Like somehow… I was meant to be here. Meant for him.
I smiled to myself. Maybe it was silly, but I didn’t care.
I felt his breathing shift; he began to move.
My fingers froze. I kept my eyes shut tight—if he thought I was still asleep, maybe he wouldn’t get up.
He pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head, breathing me in, his chest rose beneath me. Then a slow sigh escaped his lips.
Through a sleepy voice, he whispered, “We have to get you home before someone finds you here.”
Still pretending to be asleep, I muttered, “Ugh, I know.”
He chuckled, and the low vibration of his laugh filled the room. I felt every muscle beneath my cheek, every breath he took.
I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to leave.
But I knew I had to slip out of his room before the rest of the world woke up and everything about last night turned into something we’d have to explain.
While I got dressed back into my own clothes, he pulled on a shirt and a pair of shoes.
We slipped out the window, careful not to be seen. The car would've been quicker, but too risky—so we walked.
It was still early. The streetlights hadn’t yet turned off, and the sun was only just beginning to break across the horizon—everything was painted in misty gray and soft pink.
Fog rose off the lake, curling around our ankles as we moved quietly through the sleepy town of Shay. We didn’t speak—just held hands—letting the emotions of last night linger between us. It was quiet, but we let the silence say what words couldn’t.
We did our best not to draw attention as we made our way toward my house. The clothes I’d worn the day before, tousled hair, and the knowing smiles painted on both our faces would’ve been all the old ladies in Shay needed to get the rumor mill up and running.
The party line would be tangled for hours—full of speculation and plausible truths.
Luckily, Neal was the only one who showed signs of being awake—the smell of coffee mixed with morning dew crept in as we passed by. He was probably too busy preparing for the morning rush to notice two teenagers strolling past.
The sun was peeking through the trees when we made it past the strawberry fields.
We didn’t want to risk being seen by my parents, so he dropped me off at the top of my driveway.
His hand reluctantly released mine—his fingertips not fully letting go. He turned to face me, his hands drifting to a place they knew well, settling lightly at my waist.
I looked up at him, his eyes still carrying the weight of blissful exhaustion.
He leaned down slowly, placing his lips perfectly on mine.
Still soft, but a bit tender now—proof of how long we’d spent trading breaths last night.
A pleasure and a dull ache lingered as he moved toward my ear, his lips barely brushing my cheek.
His hand slid from my hip, his fingers tracing slowly up my arm until they came to rest near my ear.
He gently tucked a loose piece of hair behind it and whispered,
“I think I love ya, honeysuckle.”
His warm, deep Southern accent wrapped around me like a blanket, his words twirling through my mind.
He pressed one more kiss to my lips, let out a breathy grin, and said,
“See you later.”
I didn’t have to say anything—the pink in my cheeks wasn’t from the sunrise. It told him everything he needed to know.
As he slowly turned to walk away, he looked back over his shoulder—his golden curls wild, his blue eyes a bit more awake now, and that smile...
I was still standing there, just staring as he disappeared past the fields.
Finally, I turned toward my house. My fingers outlined my lips, the memory of his scar still lingering at my fingertips.
I floated in a dreamy haze down the gravel drive.
As I reached the porch, the memories from last night—and the way he’d said those words—didn’t fade like the morning fog.
They settled into me slowly, quietly.
Like something meant to stay
Like something that refused to let go.