Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

by Monica Murphy

  “I hope you like action films,” he tells me as we walk into the hushed quiet of the theater. “I hear this one has lots of car chases and shoot-’em-up scenes.”

  “I don’t mind.” I didn’t. My father and I used to watch these sorts of movies all the time when I was little. Die Hard was his favorite movie of all time and he could quote almost all the lines, which used to make me laugh.

  But that was before. One of the few fond memories I have of my dad.

  “I hear this one is funny, too.” We pause at the bottom of the stadium seating and I notice there aren’t a lot of people in the theater tonight. The movie has already been out for a few weeks and there are a couple of more recent and very popular films playing tonight, so I figure that’s where everyone is. “Where should we sit?”

  “I like to sit high and in the middle,” I suggest, and he nods his approval.

  He follows me as we walk up the stairs, and I feel really self-conscious. I tuck a few stray hairs behind my ear and clutch the giant soda in my other hand, hoping like crazy I don’t drop it. His closeness makes me nervous. I can feel him just behind me, his body heat radiating toward me. I sort of want to snuggle up against all that warmth and I never, ever want to do that.

  I pick an empty aisle and we settle into seats in the exact center. I pull the armrest down and set the soda in the slot. Ethan looks at it, then looks at me. “I hate these armrests.”

  “You do?” I frown.

  He nods, pulls the soda out of the slot, and takes a sip. “I don’t mind if you want to hold it on the other side, if you don’t mind me asking for a drink every once in a while.”

  “Um, okay. Sure.” I take the soda from him and stare at the straw, where his lips just were. I didn’t even think this through. We’re going to share a drink, which means my lips are going to rest on the spot where his lips just were. Which is the stupidest thought ever, because right now I sound like a thirteen-year-old girl with a massive crush. It’s just that I’ve never done this sort of thing before and it makes me feel giddy and stupid, and I . . .

  I love it.

  I sip from the straw, glancing up to find him watching me, the dim lights above causing a slight reflection on his glasses so I can’t quite tell how he’s looking at me. He’s hard to read sometimes. I probably am, too.

  The moment I slip the soda into the slot on my left armrest, Ethan’s lifting up the one that divides us, smiling at me. “That’s better. I always feel like my elbows constantly bang into these things.” He lifts up the one on the other side of him, too.

  All I can think is how much closer we can get without the barrier between us. This is only our second official date, third if you count the afternoon we had coffee, but I’m anxious. Excited. I want to be closer to him.

  He rests the bucket of popcorn in his lap and tears open the box of M&Ms, sprinkling them over the top and then shaking the bucket so the candy sinks deeper. He does this a few more times, emptying the entire box of candy into the bucket before he thrusts it toward me. “Try it.”

  I dig around and grab a handful of popcorn and M&Ms and munch away, enjoying the salty sweetness, the way the chocolate is already a little melted from the heat of the popcorn. “It’s delicious,” I say after I swallow.

  “I knew you’d like it.” He starts eating and the lights dim, the darkening theater signaling that about twenty minutes of previews are about to start up.

  We watch silently, our hands bumping every so often as we both make a grab for more popcorn. My sticky fingers tangle with his and I offer a whispered “sorry,” which only earns me a cute smile in return. I don’t think he minds that our hands are touching. I know I don’t.

  During the fourth preview he bends his head, his mouth right at my ear as he whispers, “Can I have a drink?”

  I shiver at his nearness, thankful I put my hair in a bun. I can feel his warm breath on my neck and I almost want to die from how close he is, how good he smells, how good he looks.

  I have it so bad for him, I don’t know what to do with myself.

  So I try my best to play it cool. I pass him the soda when he requests it. I don’t apologize anymore when our fingers meet in the popcorn bucket. Who knew munching on snacks during movie previews could be so . . . romantic?

  I didn’t. I hadn’t a clue.

  One of the movie previews leaves me squeamish. It’s a horror movie, bloody and violent, and I wince at a graphic scene, turning my head to the right so I don’t have to see it. The music is scary, the sound of a knife slicing skin awful, and I close my eyes, dipping my head so my forehead touches Ethan’s shoulder for the briefest moment.

  He turns. I can feel his eyes on me and I hope I’m not being too forward, but I couldn’t watch that for another minute. “You okay?”

  I nod and slowly lift my head, meeting his gaze in the darkened theater. The flickering blue from the screen casts Ethan in interesting shadows and I wish I could touch his face. “I’m fine. That preview was gross.”

  “Yeah. I don’t like horror movies either.” Then he does the craziest thing. He reaches out, tucks a tendril of hair behind my ear, his fingertips brushing my skin, and I tingle . . . everywhere. “I think the movie’s starting,” he whispers.

  I don’t bother looking at the screen. I’m too enraptured with his expression, the way he’s watching me. “Good,” I whisper back. “I can’t wait to watch it.”

  He smiles and taps my nose with his index finger before he turns back toward the screen and settles into his chair, his long legs sprawled in front of him, the now half-eaten popcorn bucket still in his lap.

  This is probably going to be two hours of pure, agonizingly delicious torture.

  I can’t concentrate for shit. Having her this close, with really no barrier between us while sitting in the dark of a mostly empty movie theater, is a slow form of torture. Our hands constantly touching while we reach for popcorn makes me insane—which is the craziest thing ever because, come on. We’re grabbing at popcorn.

  But every time my fingers brush against hers it’s like I touched a live wire. I’m jolted into awareness—as if I wasn’t aware of her enough already. She has her hair up in a bun like a ballerina, and little wisps of blond strands lie against her otherwise bare neck. I want to press my lips there, right behind her ear, breathe in her scent and slowly kiss her neck, her cheek, her mouth . . .

  Katie jumps at the loud boom from a car crash on-screen, her shoulder bumping against mine, and I lean in close, taking advantage. “That scare you?” I whisper close to her ear, stating the obvious. Any excuse so I can get near her.

  She nods and turns toward me, her face so close to mine it would take nothing to lean in and kiss her. “Yeah,” she whispers shakily, her gaze lifting to meet mine.

  I glance around. There’s no one near us. They’re all paying attention to the movie anyway. I’m tempted. So damn tempted.

  Reaching out, I touch her. Drift my fingers across her cheek. Hear her inhale shakily, her gaze dropping from mine. I trace the delicate line of her jaw with my thumb, slip it just beneath her chin to tilt her face up, putting our lips in perfect alignment.

  I shouldn’t do this. But I have to know. The need to taste her, just once, overwhelms me completely, and I give in to the urge and brush her lips with mine.

  A little sound escapes her at first touch. The softest “oh” I’ve ever heard, as if I surprised her, which I might have. I pull away from her slightly, my hand still cupping her cheek, my thumb beneath her chin, and she lifts her lids, her dark blue gaze meeting mine.

  We say nothing. My heart is racing so fast I wonder if she can hear it, but I don’t care. I want to kiss her again. That first brush of lips was nothing. A tease.

  Her lips part and her eyelids fall shut, an open invitation for me to kiss her again. So I do. I move closer and so does she, and then my mouth is on hers. Our mouths cling, break apart, cling again. Kiss after kiss. Simple, no tongue, but our lips are parted and we share breaths, mi
ne fast, hers shaky.

  The movie is forgotten. I’m making out with Katie in a movie theater like we’re kids, though I never bothered doing this with girls when I was younger. First, I couldn’t afford to take them to the movies. Second, we’d just find some dark corner at a party. That’s where I always made out with girls before I would usually drag them to an empty bedroom and fuck them.

  It never meant anything, though. Ever.

  This entire night has been like a teenage date straight out of a cheesy movie, nothing I ever experienced the entire time I was in high school. My life was shit then. Getting lost in the foster system, treading water with classwork, and throwing myself into any sport I could play. Girls weren’t a priority, but they were there and easy to lose myself in for a while.

  What I’m sharing with Katie is something completely different. And though I have no fucking business leading her on like this, kissing her and treating her like this is a real date when I should walk away the minute this evening is over, I know I won’t.

  I should, but I won’t.

  She breaks the kiss first, dropping her head forward so my chin rests close to her forehead. I stroke her cheek and tuck a few stray hairs behind her ear, my fingers lingering when I hear her whisper, “I’m not good at this.”

  “Good at what?” I shift away so she lifts her head and our gazes meet once more.

  Her expression is pure embarrassment. Torment. “Kissing.”

  “I’m going to have to argue with you on that.” I lean down and kiss her again, savoring the little sigh that escapes her when I do so.

  Katie pulls away. “Remember what I told you earlier?” I nod at her question and her gaze skitters from mine. “I’m, uh, not big on dating. As in, I’ve never done it.”

  I remain quiet. Trace her jaw with my thumb, streak it across her bottom lip. Now that I’ve touched her like this, so intimately, I can’t stop.

  “I haven’t done much of anything,” she continues. “There’s—there’s so much I should tell you, but I’m afraid I’ll scare you away.” Her voice is the rawest whisper, touching something deep inside of me. She couldn’t scare me away if she tried. Makes me think that maybe we are meant for each other, as crazy as it sounds. Her horrible past doesn’t bother me, not in the way it might bother other men, because I’m a part of that horrible past. I can help her, not hurt her.

  Would she see that, though? Would she agree, especially once she finds out who I really am? I don’t know, and it’s the doubt that troubles me. Worries me.

  Makes me think I’m doing the wrong thing when Katie deserves only the absolute best.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” I start, but she’s already whispering, cutting me off.

  “You keep saying that, but you deserve the truth about what happened to me. And it’s awful. Like, really awful.” She pauses, her eyes seeming to glisten in the dimness of the theater, almost like she’s about to cry. My heart cracks at the possibility. “So I totally get it if you don’t want to see me again after tonight.”

  As usual she’s killing me with her words. “Jesus, Katie.” I glance around, thankful no one else is really close to us. We’re talking in whispers, and the movie is so damn loud they can’t hear us anyway, but still. A movie theater isn’t the best place to have this sort of conversation. “You honestly think I’d walk after you say something like that?”

  Katie lifts her head, her watery gaze filled with the faintest bit of hope. “You should. You should definitely walk. I’m a mess,” she whispers. “I already warned you.”

  “What are you saying? That you should come with a warning label?” I ask incredulously as I reach out and rest my other hand on her hip. She jumps beneath my palm and I’m tempted to let her go.

  But I don’t.

  She nods. “Probably.”

  Without a word I pull her as close as I can and settle my mouth on hers once more. This time, though, I’m not gentle or slow. I’m a little more aggressive, kissing her harder, tilting my head so I can take the kiss deeper. She doesn’t really respond, her moves so tentative, so inexperienced, that when I finally break away from her lips, I whisper, “Kiss me back.”

  She blinks up at me, her lips swollen and damp from mine, and I move toward her, ready to make another attempt, just before she leaps to her feet.

  “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t,” she mumbles, her purse dangling from her fingers before she turns and leaves, running down the stairs and toward the exit door that leads to the back parking lot.

  I sit in stunned silence, shocked that she bailed on me in the middle of the movie theater, before I spring into action. What the hell just happened? Why did she leave? I pushed too hard. I demanded too much. This is what I get, what I deserve.

  I shouldn’t follow her outside. I should do Katie a favor and run in the other direction. I won’t help her. I’ll only hurt her.

  Instead of doing what I should, I follow her, hoping like hell she hasn’t got away. Kissing her, pushing her like I just did, was a mistake. I wasn’t fucking thinking.

  That’s the theme in regards to Katie, though. I flat-out don’t think. I feel. I want. I hurt.

  I need.

  My legs are shaky as I run out into the dark, cool night, the theater door slamming with a heavy thud behind me, the sound jarring in the otherwise quiet. I come to a stop on the sidewalk that fringes the parking lot and glance around, my breaths fast, as I try and gather my bearings.

  Like a coward I ran. Fear made me do it. Fear makes me do everything. It’s the driving force in my life and God, I hate it so much. Why can’t I stand up for myself? Why do I always get so scared?

  At first, I liked the way he kissed me. Soft and sweet, his warm, firm lips on mine churning up all sorts of unfamiliar, yearning sensations that seemed to radiate throughout my body. I wanted to melt; I wanted to grab hold of him and cling tight. Savor the feeling of his arms wrapped around me.

  But then he became bolder, his mouth more insistent, his hands seemingly everywhere, though truly, he was always respectful. Always a gentleman. When he demanded I kiss him back, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t . . .

  I didn’t know what to do. I got scared.

  And I ran.

  Glancing around, I look for any sign of life, but no one’s out here. It’s cold and cloudy, the sky dark and threatening, and the ground is damp, like it’s already rained. I parked far away and I’m a little spooked being out here alone, but I tell myself to get over it. It’s all my fault anyway. If I were a normal person, I would have enjoyed the movie with my date and let him walk me to my car afterward. I would have enjoyed even more the way he kissed me—in the most nonthreatening way possible, I might add—and agreed to another date if he asked me.

  But he won’t ask me, ever again. I’ve ruined it. I ran out on him like a complete freak, so why would he go after me? He won’t. I don’t care how nice he is, how he says all the right things and looks at me like he cares and kisses me like he’s interested; once he finds out the truth . . .

  He’ll leave.

  Stiffening my spine, I head out into the parking lot, my steps hurried as I walk toward my car. Raindrops fall on my cheeks and I bend my head down, quickening my pace when it starts to steadily drizzle. I only have on a sweater since I left my coat in my car and the air is freezing, made worse by the rain.

  Gloomy and cold, much like my mood.

  “Katherine!”

  I recognize his voice, hear him call my name—my full name—and I slow my steps and glance over my shoulder to see Ethan coming toward me. I contemplate running the rest of the way to my car, I’m ashamed to admit, but I remain rooted where I stand, waiting for him. The rain starts falling in earnest and I blink against the drops hitting my face, wishing I could wipe my eyes but knowing that will smear my mascara.

  Not that it matters. It’s probably all smeared anyway.

  “Come back inside,” he says as he draws closer.

  I shake my head.
“I just want to go home.”

  “Let me take you home.”

  “No.” He stops just in front of me and for one fleeting moment, I want him to grab hold of me and pull me into his arms. Never let me go. “I should—I’d rather be alone. I’m sorry.” Why did I apologize? That was one thing I had to work on years ago, with one of my many therapists. I apologized for everything. I had to realize that not everything is my fault.

  Most everything I apologized for was never my fault. I hate that I’m falling back into old, bad habits.

  We stare at each other, the rain falling down upon us, drenching us completely. His expression is uncertain and he looks . . . different. Is it his hair as it becomes plastered to his head, water dripping from the ends? Or is it the way he frowns at me, like I’ve disappointed him for the millionth time?

  Slowly I realize what’s different about him—he doesn’t have his glasses on. I see them peeking out of the front pocket of his shirt, the dark fabric molding to his chest the wetter it gets. Despite all the moisture in the air, my mouth goes dry at the sight of it, at the sight of him.

  He’s broad. Muscular. Strong. He could snap me like a twig, not that I believe he ever would. All that restrained strength contrasted with the gentle way he just touched me, kissed me . . .

  My head grows light and my breathing accelerates. There’s something very awe-inspiring about a large man who restrains himself. Who is kind and caring yet fierce in his defense of someone who needs protecting.

  Like me.

  “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who should be sorry,” he finally says, his voice so low I have to take a step closer so I can hear him. “I pushed too hard, and . . .”

  “It’s okay.” I cut him off. I have a bad habit of doing that with him, yet I never do that with anyone else. It’s like I’m in this rush to say things to him, as if I want to convince him of something else. I don’t like how I do this. “Really. It’s all on me.”