I don’t want to, though.
I don’t want to feel perfect or on fire or ethereal.
I don’t want to feel his.
But I do, and when the time comes for him to lift me and he puts his hands on my waist and gives me a boost after two long years, stars explode in my veins. The violins are so loud that they shatter the ceiling, the sky, and I throw my arms up in the air, my lungs swelling up with his scent of wildflowers and woods.
I’m so lost in it, in his grip, in the fact that my soft flesh gives so easily beneath his strong fingers, that it takes me a few seconds to realize that the music has stopped.
I don’t even know where the time went.
I don’t even know how it moved so fast and there’s pin-drop silence now.
Except for our breaths, panting and heavy.
I lower my arms then and put them on his shoulders, looking down.
As always, his eyes are already on me, a gunmetal gray so intense and liquid that I could drown in it. I could drown in the deep lake of his wolf eyes.
And I should save myself.
I should look away.
I shouldn’t admire his thick lashes, the strands of his dark brown hair that flutter over his forehead. The long strands that make me think that he needs a haircut.
I shouldn’t flex my fingers on his shoulders and knead the muscles. I shouldn’t marvel over how big they feel now, how strong and rock-like. Even more than before.
Like he’s been pumping iron for the past two years, building himself muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon.
And why wouldn’t he?
He’s an athlete. A soccer player.
The best soccer player.
The one who won the championship two years ago. Who defeated my brother, the Angry Thorn, and became the reigning champion of Bardstown High, the Wild Mustang.
I bet people still remember him. They remember his victory. They remember his swagger, his style, his legend.
And if they remember him, they probably remember me too.
They probably remember what the Thorn Princess did in the name of love.
How she went crazy.
For him.
And God, I need to get away from him. I need to leave.
I need to save myself.
“I have to go,” I whisper and hastily climb down his body.
Looking away, I step back from him and in my mind, I’m already putting things back, closing down the studio and catching the bus back to St. Mary’s when he decides to break the silence.
“I’ll drop you off.”
He’s waiting for me by his Mustang.
He’s leaning against it, his arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other.
When he told me that he’d drop me off, I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t want to prolong our time together and I didn’t have the energy for it either. Giving in seemed like the best course of action.
Now though, not so much.
Because I can’t stop this pain in my chest, this wild thunderous beating of my broken heart.
This is how he always waited for me.
Leaning against his car, his strong arms folded, his animal eyes — that I think can see even in the dark — pinned on whatever door that I’d come out of.
Usually his front door.
Because that was when he’d take me out on rides, when I visited Tempest over the weekends, and he’d bring me back safe and sound before my curfew.
And I’d run to him.
I’d rush down the cobblestone driveway to get to him, to go wherever he planned on taking me before ending up in the woods so I could dance for him.
Tonight though, I walk slowly.
I breathe slowly too. In and out.
But most of all, I don’t look into his eyes. I don’t stare back.
I keep my eyes on his black boots with metallic buckles even though I know that he doesn’t have such qualms.
I know that he is staring at me.
I can feel it.
I can feel his eyes looking at me as I walk toward him, taking me in, my changed dress, my tight bun, my ballet flats.
But I power through it. I power through the short walk and when I’m close, I see that he unfolds his ankles and straightens up. And then he does something that knocks the breath out of me.
Like it used to before.
He walks around his car and opens the door for me.
He always did that, and two years ago I didn’t know what to make of it.
I didn’t know how to protect myself from his charms, from a villain with manners.
He’d stand there with the door open, his eyes tracking my every move as he’d wait for me to get in. So he could close the door after me as well.
And turns out I still don’t know how to do that, how to protect myself.
Because when he opens the door for me tonight, my whole body trembles. My breaths come out faster and I have to dig my nails into my palms to make it all stop.
“Thank you,” I say, finally looking at him, remembering my own manners.
His reaction to my thank you is not the same, however.
Before, he’d smirk or say something inappropriate or simply stare at me with bright intense eyes to make me blush.
Tonight, he does stare at me and his eyes do glow.
But he makes no comment. His stubbled jaw is harsh and his gorgeous features are tight.
Despite everything, I’m slightly disappointed, but I ignore it and get inside and then I have other thoughts. Other things to contend with besides his changed reaction.
Things like I’m inside his Mustang after two years. His Mustang.
Somewhere I never thought I’d be.
And those trembles intensify.
I shake as hard as his car does when he snaps the door shut after me.
Last time I was in this car, I drove it into the lake.
I was crying and shaking and in so much pain. And strangely it comes back to me that on that night, his Mustang smelled the same as it does tonight.
Wildflowers and woods.
And his seats, they feel the same too. The same plush smooth leather. The carpet even. Everything feels the same, cozy and warm and thrilling.
When Reed gets inside, I want to ask him about it.
I want to ask him how he managed that.
How he managed to put it all back together the same way as before.
He must be good then, right? Extremely good with cars if he could achieve this level of perfection. And I want to ask him.
I want to ask him why he never told me that he worked at a garage, that he has this amazing talent. So much so that he built this car with his own hands. Why he never shared those things with me, those little parts of himself.
Well, because he never loved you, Callie. You never meant anything to him.
Right. Of course.
There’s nothing for me to say to him then and so I let him drive me back to St. Mary’s in silence. Soon though, the ride comes to an end and we reach our destination.
He parks the car by the side of the road and I know that I should get out and leave. I should walk back through the woods and scale that fence to go back to my room.
But I can’t.