I punish myself so I can remember to never make the same mistakes again and I hate that he knows this about me.
“You do,” he says, his wolf eyes narrowed. “You lied to your brothers about coming to my party that one time and you walked on eggshells around them for the rest of the week after that.”
I did.
I did walk on eggshells after lying about going to his party, the one that started everything. Because I felt so guilty.
That for days after that, I tried to make up for it in a hundred different ways. By never being late coming back from school; by doing Ledger’s laundry without him having to pester me about it; by cooking Con’s favorite things and so on.
I purse my lips. “Yeah, I did. Because I hate lying. Especially to my brothers.”
He watches me for a few moments, the muscle on his cheek pulsing before saying, “It was me. I fucked you over. I broke my promise to you. Deliberately. Because I wanted to win. I picked soccer over you. And then broke your heart. I’m the asshole here, understand? So if you want to punish someone, punish the villain in your story. Not yourself.” His eyes rove over my face. “Being gullible is not a crime. Seeing good in people is not a crime either. Taking advantage of it is.”
I watch him then.
Speechless.
I never thought of it that way. I never thought that I see good in people. I mean, I do, but I never made that connection. I never thought that that’s what I was doing with Reed.
I was though, right?
I did see the good in him and he took advantage of that.
I trusted him and he broke my trust. And maybe he’s right.
Maybe trusting people is not a crime, breaking that trust is.
He’s the criminal. And I’m the crime he committed.
“Are you going to eat the fucking cupcake or not?” he pushes out when all I do is stare at him.
At this beautiful criminal, this gorgeous villain.
“Apologize,” I blurt out and as soon as I say it, my spine goes up.
My resolve strengthens.
“What?”
“Apologize to me,” I tell him. “Because you’re right. I have been punishing myself. For the crimes that you committed. You’re the asshole here, the villain. And so apologize. Say you were an asshole. To use me like that. To abuse my trust. To break my heart like that. I apologized for stealing your car even though you deserved it and now it’s your turn. And apologize not because your sister wants you to but because you should.”
His nostrils flare and I raise my chin.
I’m not budging from this spot until he apologizes to me.
His jaw tics for a few seconds and his grip on the door tightens before he loosens it and says, “I’m the asshole here. I used you, abused your trust and broke your heart. I shouldn’t have done that. So yeah, I fucking apologize.”
It wasn’t exactly the heartfelt apology I was looking for but it’s fine.
It’s Reed.
He’s rude and insensitive and an asshole like he just said. So I’ll take it like I’m taking his help.
"Thank you.”
“So am I forgiven then?”
I look at him for a few seconds before I shake my head. “No. Not really. I don’t think anything you can do will ever make me forgive you.”
He looks back at me for a few seconds too. “Good.”
I feel a twinge in my heart and I swallow. “Fine.”
“Now, are you going to get inside the fucking car or not?”
“I will.” I throw him a regal nod. “And I will eat those cupcakes too. In your Mustang. Because I don’t care about your stupid rule of not eating inside your car.”
He does have that rule.
He told me that once and all the time we were together, I never broke it. But I’m going to break it now and he can’t stop me.
“Fine.” He throws me a short nod of his own. “You can eat your fucking cupcake in my car.”
So I finally get inside his car and open the box of cupcakes. When he closes the door, I hear him mutter, That rule was never for you anyway.
Again, I try not to dwell on those nearly silent words. I try not to let any warmth invade my chest.
But as I said, on nights like this, it becomes hard.
It becomes hard to ignore that for all his asshole ways, he did get me off the hook and he did apologize to me.
And one Thursday, a week later, it becomes almost impossible to ignore.
Because first, he comes to pick me up at midnight, wearing a suit.
A legit suit with a tie.
His jacket is off, but he’s wearing a dress shirt that stretches really nicely over his chest, and a loosened tie.
For a few seconds I can only watch him with wide eyes. Because he looks so… dashing. So freaking handsome and gorgeous and worldly.
Like the rich, arrogant boy he is.
A man actually.
And the second thing happens when I get inside his Mustang and my eyes fall on some papers and files scattered on his backseat. It’s not the files themselves that trip me up, it’s the black logo on them, Jackson Builders.
His dad’s company.
The company that Reed has sworn never to work at even though that’s what his dad has always wanted for him.
That’s what pushes me over the edge.
That file and his suit.
That’s what makes me break the pact. The pact that I’d made with Tempest of no brothers and no seeking out information about Reed.
About the last two years.
About what really happened and what he did to get me free.
***
He’s waiting for me by his car.
Like he always does.
Leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest, his ankles crossed as well.
I can see him through the woods, his tall form, his dark jeans.
Tonight there’s no light in him, no softness. Nothing to sand down the beautiful, reckless edges.
Because tonight he’s forgone his hoodie that he usually wears. He doesn’t have his suit on either, which I only saw for the first time last Thursday, which made him look all old and mature and so experienced.
Tonight, he has that leather jacket on.
The one that I hate because he wore it when he broke my heart, looking so gorgeous while doing it.
I watch him in that without making my presence known.
I watch and notice and analyze him.
His hair is grown out even more in the past month. If he didn’t need a haircut before, he definitely needs one now.
I look at his body.
His big shoulders, broad and strong. His lean, cut torso.
Then I move down to his thighs.
They bulge under his jeans when he shifts on his feet, showing me how powerful they are. His thighs, his calves.
I have to admit that I’ve always been so fascinated by them, by his legs. By his footwork.
I’m a ballerina, right?
I see footwork in my dreams. I’ve seen his footwork in my dreams too.
I’ve seen him stealing the ball, dribbling it across the field, sending it flying across the field so many, many times. Both in real life and in dreams.