“You’re lying,” he said. A new determination in his voice. “I’ll prove it.”
He kissed me then. More than anger, I felt desperation from him. And the longer he held me—his lips tugging at mine, trying to convince me that he was the one—the harder it became to argue.
Blake cared about me. Deeply. And I felt the same about him. I threw myself into his embrace, and suddenly it became more. Clothes shifting, the warm evening air hitting my skin, and then his skin against my skin.
A roar went up from the crowd as somebody scored a touchdown.
Crashing back to reality, I stumbled away from Blake, yanking my clothes back on. Our gazes met: his hopeless and mine apologizing. His eyes seared me before I ran. Maybe we would have tried to pretend it never happened, that we never happened.
A week later Jamie posted that picture of us on Facebook, and the possibility of Blake and me staying friends was shot to hell.
* * *
A branch snaps, and I wake in a rush. It is pitch-black, and I am in Grave Woods. Not the smartest idea, since it appears I’m no longer alone. Animal or human? I tilt my head to listen. Footsteps are coming toward me.
A flashlight soars through the clearing, lighting up the trees before it lands on me, still lying on the ground. Then he steps into view. Blake.
“Q! There you are!” He rushes toward me, dropping to his knees. For once, he’s dressed for the weather, in a jacket and flannel shirt. “Are you okay? Shit, you had me scared!”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, confused.
“Your dad called, asking if I’d seen you. He said you ran off from the hospital.”
My parents arguing. George. The day rushes back to me, and I fight Blake’s attempt to get me to my feet by wrapping my arms around my knees. I’m not ready to go back and face them.
“Come on, Q,” he says when I refuse to get up. “Your skin is like ice. We have to get you to your Jeep.”
“Go away, Blake.”
He doesn’t. He sits beside me, dropping the flashlight on the ground between us. “What the fuck is going on? Your dad sounds freaked out, and you’re out here in the woods in the middle of the night.”
He sounds strained, and I concentrate on his voice.
“He found out that my mom’s back.”
“Oh man. Wait—if he just found out, how long have you known?”
“Since before the dance,” I admit.
“Aw, Q,” he groans. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I start crying. “Why would I? We’re not friends anymore.”
He loops an arm around my shoulder, tugging me into the side of his body. My skin soaks up the heat coming off him. He sighs. “We’re more than friends. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” He runs a hand over my back, trying to warm me up. “I’m here now. Talk to me.”
I do. He flips off the flashlight to save the battery, and in the dark I tell him about my mom’s return and my friendship with George and how my father’s treated me since the picture came out. I tell him about my run-ins with Jamie and Nikki and Angel and Mrs. Breen. I confess how dirty I’ve felt—the kind that stains you below the skin. Except everyone can see these stains, and they have punished me for them.
I tell him how shitty the past months have been, and how I felt abandoned by everyone, including Carey. Including him.
Blake listens to me unload in silence, much like I listened to Carey that night he crawled through my window. I stop just short of confessing the part where Carey is gay and I promised him I would pretend I was still his girlfriend to save him. I keep my promise, but just.
At some point, he lies back in the dirt, and I curl into his body while he holds tight to me. When my teeth begin to chatter, Blake strips off his coat and drapes it over us. My throat hurts from talking by the time I run out of words.
We listen to crickets chirping, and he says, “I’m sorry. For everything that’s happened to you. I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t lie and say he didn’t know it was happening. Some of it he witnessed; some of it I kept from him deliberately. I’d owed him that for hurting him. But Blake also was my friend. More than a friend, like he said. He’d owed me something too.
I roll my head against his shoulder so I can see his face. “I’m sorry too.”
“Happy birthday, Q,” he whispers.
He dips his head toward me, and I meet him halfway. Lips touch, tug, part. I love him, I think, my lips curving into a small smile at the certainty. No more confusion. His fingers trace my cheek, tucking my hair behind my ear in a gentle movement that sets off shivers.
I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. I love him, I think again.
He pulls away an inch, and we inhale one breath. His hand drops to my waist. When I kiss him, he grips my shirt, resting his fist on my hip.
“I love you, Q,” he whispers. “I always have, even when you were Carey’s.”
I roll onto my back and he follows, dropping tiny kisses on my neck. Leaning over me, he waits for me to open my eyes. “Don’t break my heart again, okay?”
“I promise,” I whisper back.
And then we stop talking.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The porch light is on when I get home, even though the sun peeks over the horizon. Blake waves from his truck, waiting until I’m inside before he pulls away. I fall back against the front door for a moment, too unsteady to stand without support.
He kissed me then. More than anger, I felt desperation from him. And the longer he held me—his lips tugging at mine, trying to convince me that he was the one—the harder it became to argue.
Blake cared about me. Deeply. And I felt the same about him. I threw myself into his embrace, and suddenly it became more. Clothes shifting, the warm evening air hitting my skin, and then his skin against my skin.
A roar went up from the crowd as somebody scored a touchdown.
Crashing back to reality, I stumbled away from Blake, yanking my clothes back on. Our gazes met: his hopeless and mine apologizing. His eyes seared me before I ran. Maybe we would have tried to pretend it never happened, that we never happened.
A week later Jamie posted that picture of us on Facebook, and the possibility of Blake and me staying friends was shot to hell.
* * *
A branch snaps, and I wake in a rush. It is pitch-black, and I am in Grave Woods. Not the smartest idea, since it appears I’m no longer alone. Animal or human? I tilt my head to listen. Footsteps are coming toward me.
A flashlight soars through the clearing, lighting up the trees before it lands on me, still lying on the ground. Then he steps into view. Blake.
“Q! There you are!” He rushes toward me, dropping to his knees. For once, he’s dressed for the weather, in a jacket and flannel shirt. “Are you okay? Shit, you had me scared!”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, confused.
“Your dad called, asking if I’d seen you. He said you ran off from the hospital.”
My parents arguing. George. The day rushes back to me, and I fight Blake’s attempt to get me to my feet by wrapping my arms around my knees. I’m not ready to go back and face them.
“Come on, Q,” he says when I refuse to get up. “Your skin is like ice. We have to get you to your Jeep.”
“Go away, Blake.”
He doesn’t. He sits beside me, dropping the flashlight on the ground between us. “What the fuck is going on? Your dad sounds freaked out, and you’re out here in the woods in the middle of the night.”
He sounds strained, and I concentrate on his voice.
“He found out that my mom’s back.”
“Oh man. Wait—if he just found out, how long have you known?”
“Since before the dance,” I admit.
“Aw, Q,” he groans. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I start crying. “Why would I? We’re not friends anymore.”
He loops an arm around my shoulder, tugging me into the side of his body. My skin soaks up the heat coming off him. He sighs. “We’re more than friends. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” He runs a hand over my back, trying to warm me up. “I’m here now. Talk to me.”
I do. He flips off the flashlight to save the battery, and in the dark I tell him about my mom’s return and my friendship with George and how my father’s treated me since the picture came out. I tell him about my run-ins with Jamie and Nikki and Angel and Mrs. Breen. I confess how dirty I’ve felt—the kind that stains you below the skin. Except everyone can see these stains, and they have punished me for them.
I tell him how shitty the past months have been, and how I felt abandoned by everyone, including Carey. Including him.
Blake listens to me unload in silence, much like I listened to Carey that night he crawled through my window. I stop just short of confessing the part where Carey is gay and I promised him I would pretend I was still his girlfriend to save him. I keep my promise, but just.
At some point, he lies back in the dirt, and I curl into his body while he holds tight to me. When my teeth begin to chatter, Blake strips off his coat and drapes it over us. My throat hurts from talking by the time I run out of words.
We listen to crickets chirping, and he says, “I’m sorry. For everything that’s happened to you. I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t lie and say he didn’t know it was happening. Some of it he witnessed; some of it I kept from him deliberately. I’d owed him that for hurting him. But Blake also was my friend. More than a friend, like he said. He’d owed me something too.
I roll my head against his shoulder so I can see his face. “I’m sorry too.”
“Happy birthday, Q,” he whispers.
He dips his head toward me, and I meet him halfway. Lips touch, tug, part. I love him, I think, my lips curving into a small smile at the certainty. No more confusion. His fingers trace my cheek, tucking my hair behind my ear in a gentle movement that sets off shivers.
I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. I love him, I think again.
He pulls away an inch, and we inhale one breath. His hand drops to my waist. When I kiss him, he grips my shirt, resting his fist on my hip.
“I love you, Q,” he whispers. “I always have, even when you were Carey’s.”
I roll onto my back and he follows, dropping tiny kisses on my neck. Leaning over me, he waits for me to open my eyes. “Don’t break my heart again, okay?”
“I promise,” I whisper back.
And then we stop talking.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The porch light is on when I get home, even though the sun peeks over the horizon. Blake waves from his truck, waiting until I’m inside before he pulls away. I fall back against the front door for a moment, too unsteady to stand without support.
