by Penny Reid
I was so confused. “What are you talking about? Look at your parents, they’re the calmest, most drama-free, happiest—in marriage—people I know.”
“Exactly.” She turned to me, giving me a look as though I’d just proven her point. “I’ve never seen anyone as happy as my parents. They set unrealistic expectations that can never be met. The world is . . .”
“What?”
“The world is full of crazy, selfish, freaky people. Statistically speaking, the chances of finding the wrong person and falling in love are much, much higher than finding the right person. Why do you think the divorce rate is so high? If you factor in failed unmarried relationships plus people who stay in unhappy marriages for lack of options, then I estimate we’re talking about a mere five percent of the population who are happily committed, maybe even less. With stats like that, it’s a miracle anyone gets married at all.” She paused here to take a deep breath and sounded distracted as she added, “And if you fall for the wrong person, what can you do? You’re already in love, and your heart wants what it wants, and everything is a mess.”
I had a suspicion, regarding this last part, Simone was talking about someone specific.
“Did that happen to you?”
“Did what happen to me?” Her gaze darted over me.
Again, my throat felt tight, but when else would I have an opportunity to ask these questions?
So I forced the words, “Did you f-fall in love with the wrong someone and then—”
“No.” She waved her hands in front of her, as though to disperse the horrid thought. “No, no, no. I would never do that. That’s never going to happen, because I’m never falling in love. Period.”
I stared at her, disbelieving—and a little angry—that she’d never once been tempted to fall for someone, that she’d never met someone who recognized how amazing she was, how smart and hilarious and strong and kind and once-in-a-lifetime. That she’d never found someone worthy of her. How had she made it to twenty-six without someone wanting to cherish her? Not once?
You wanted to cherish her.
Swallowing around a painful thickness—which seemed to be happening a lot this evening—I struggled once more to find words, when she asked, “So how about you? Why haven’t you been committed?” She grinned at her own joke, looking silly and gorgeous.
Shaking my head, I dropped my eyes to my hands and made a show of studying my fingers.
I chuckled at the absurdity of the situation, because nothing had changed. She didn’t want anyone, least of all me. I’d told myself I wasn’t in love with her anymore, but that didn’t matter much when I remembered pristinely and precisely what it had felt like when I did.
I didn’t want to lie, or make up some half-truth, so I looked up and responded to her question with one of my own, “Why are you here?”
Simone twisted toward me, resting the side of her head against the back window of the truck’s cab. “Are you asking me why am I in Green Valley? Or are you asking me why I’m here, now, in Hawk’s Field? Because we already covered the latter and, honestly, I don’t want to discuss the former.”
I lifted an eyebrow at her slippery response. “No. We did not cover the latter.”
It seemed to me like she didn’t wish to discuss anything of substance except how much she hated the idea of falling in love.
“Yes, we did cover it.” Her eyes were on my raised eyebrow and her lips pressed together, like she was combating a grin.
“No. We didn’t. I asked, ‘What are you doing out here, Simone?’ And you said—” I paused here to lift my voice and imitate hers, Yankee accent and all, “‘Oh, well, you know. Shelly and Beau mentioned that you like to camp one night a week.’”
“Roscoe.” She laughed, hitting me lightly on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I do not sound like that.”
I caught her wrist so she couldn’t hit me again, she was a double hitter. “So then I asked, ‘You were looking for me?’ And you said, ‘Yes.’ And then you asked a hundred questions in order to change the subject—”
“I was not trying to change the subject,” she hollered.
The uneasiness and charged atmosphere from moments prior had dissipated, and I breathed in a full breath, rolling my eyes with a great deal of exaggeration. “As I was saying, in order to change the subject and distract me from the fact that you never answered my original question.”
“I’m sorry”—she put on a mask of confusion, the effect mostly ruined by the cute and mischievous smile she was attempting to iron from her features— “what was the original question?”
I wasn’t going to ask again, but I didn’t need to. As she’d alluded earlier, there were other ways to get answers out of her, tried and true methods.
My eyes dropped to her neck. A tick of meaningful silence passed, during which I questioned myself and the wisdom of what I was doing—teasing her, threatening to tickle her, which would necessitate putting my hands on her, disregarding the levelheaded precautions I’d put in place to maintain the essential barrier between us in order to avoid making new memories I couldn’t control—but I actively decided to ignore wisdom and good sense.
Just for a minute.
Just for a moment.
Just to be with her again, like this.
Simone gasped, breaking the silence and yanking her hand away.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
I grinned, my eyes still on her neck, where she was most ticklish.
She covered each side of her throat with her hands, a preemptive defense strategy, but she was giggling.
Lifting my eyebrows, I tilted my head to the side and braced my hands on either side of me, preparing to launch myself if necessary. “Answer the question.”
Now she was laughing again, watching me, as though waiting to see if I did dare.
I pushed myself up and she squealed, her hands bracing against my chest. I easily captured her wrists with one hand, wrapped my other arm around her torso, and brought her back down on the bed. Straddling her thighs and sitting on her knees, I lifted her arms over her head while she focused her defensive efforts on tucking her chin to her chest.
Between gasping laughter, she said, “I should have worn a turtleneck.”
“Poor planning, princess.” I laughed, trying to get my fingers under her chin, and had to work to keep my seat because she was now bucking her hips and trying to bend her knees, proving herself to be stronger than I’d assumed.
No matter. Pulling her arms to the right, I maneuvered her on her side and found the sweet skin at the back of her neck.
Simone bucked again, but this time it was a reflexive response, because I’d found her spot. She shrieked as I tickled her.
“Oh my God, I can’t breathe.”
I stopped. “Answer the question.”
She panted and gasped, shaking her head, and giving me a big, teasing grin. “Never!”
Squinting in suspicion, I studied her twisted form. She wasn’t struggling, her wrists in my hands were slack, her body was both relaxed and clearly bracing for another attack, like she anticipated it, like she wanted it, like she was having a good time and wanted it to last.
Despite the chill, I was getting hot under the collar. My eyes moved over her prone form, traveling from her beaming smile to her neck, the swell of her breasts, the indent of her waist, the generous curve of her backside. The urge to do something—to her, with her, inside her—seized my lungs and nerves and muscles, a blazing flare of carnal want shot down my spine.
Yeah, I’d definitely lost control of this new memory.
Breathing out at the dizzying instinct, I moved completely off her body. I released her wrists—releasing her—as I averted my eyes and backed away to gather my wits. She sat up, reaching for me. I twisted away. The bed of the truck was too crowded, so I turned to jump down. Before I could, she caught me by the arm.
“Hey.” Her grip was tight and she tugged. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my he
ad, tossing my thumb over my shoulder. “Just remembered something.”
“Roscoe—”
Pulling my arm from her fingers, I hopped over the edge of the truck and walked toward the tent. I reached the first post, I walked beyond it, my direction aimless.
I suspected it wasn’t like this for most folks, but this sporadically cruel and often inconvenient time travel to my past was all I knew. Therefore, I dealt with it the only way I knew how.
I retreated.
Maybe it was the unanticipated force of desire, but sour memories—ones I was typically able to bury under new, better memories and distraction techniques whenever they surfaced—flooded my mind. Tortured nights spent awake, thinking, wishing; half-formed fantasies from years of wanting her; and again, as usual, the night of her rejection.
I’d made progress this week. Reliving that moment in particular, voluntarily bringing it forth. This had dulled some of the sharper edges, but the pining and longing and craving remained. The combination formed an untenable maze of unwelcome emotions fashioned by hedgerows of unwelcome recollections.
Endeavoring to dwell on a happier time, I winced, because I’d voluntarily shared my first choice—kayaking in Doubtful Sound, New Zealand—with Simone earlier. Now she was part of it, a shadow in the background.
Dimly, I became aware of footsteps behind mine, crunching through the dried grasses.
She called out, “I know you can see in the dark, Roscoe Orwell Winston. But some of us can’t. Would you please come back?”
She’d said these words to me before—usually without the please—many, many times after I’d stomped off, mad after a fight. But this time there was an edge in her voice. Not fear, but concern, and it sobered me.
Gathering several bracing breaths of the cool night air, I pulled off my sweater—because I was still hot—and returned to where she waited. Her arms were folded. She was standing next to the tent. The way her brows knotted confirmed she was worried.
“What just happened?” she demanded, taking a blind step forward.
“It’s getting late. We should get some sleep.” I moved to walk past her. She caught my arm, held me in place until I looked at her.
“Talk to me.” Her voice was full of pleading, feeling, and she shifted closer. Her chin lifted and I could tell she was searching for my eyes in the darkness. “Why did you stop talking to me?”
“Simone—”
“You disappeared.” She sounded hurt, and I wasn’t sure if she was referring to just now, or what happened a decade ago.
Part of me suspected she didn’t know either.
Her fingers tensed, as though worried I’d disappear now, muttering under her breath as though talking to herself, “Why can’t I get past this?”
Those words intrigued me, curiosity pushing me to ask, “Get past what?”
“I biked over to your house every day for two months,” she said, still talking to herself, her eyes coming back to mine. “Then I was done, I was so done. I was done missing you and I moved on.”
Unsure what to say, how I could get this situation back in hand, I could only watch her. I knew about her biking over, and I remembered, and it still hurt to think about.
“But clearly I’m not done, because it still pisses me off that you switched out of shop class,” she said accusingly. “Why? Why did you do it? You were my best friend.”
I covered her hand with mine and removed it from my arm. Threading our fingers together, I pulled her back toward the truck. “That was ten years ago.”
I said this to remind myself as much as her. I often reminded myself that ten years should have been plenty of time to get over a heartbreak, because everyone told me so.
“Then why are you still avoiding me? What did I do wrong? What made you stop wanting to—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I growled in response, acutely exhausted.
“You’re bitter about something,” she said to my back. “Best friends don’t just ghost best friends.”
“I’m not bitter.”
I loved her and she didn’t love me, but I wasn’t bitter. I didn’t resent her, I didn’t wish her ill. Her happiness mattered to me, it always had. But what could I do? Every time I saw her face, heard her voice—or worse, her laugh—everything I’d wanted resurfaced.
The memory played again, taking me on an involuntary roller coaster ride, the rise of hopes, the fall and crush of rejection.
I just want . . .
Maybe making new memories with her was a mistake. Maybe what had worked with Hawk’s Field wasn’t going to work with Simone. Or maybe, if I wanted her to stop mattering, more structure was needed, exposure in smaller increments. Or maybe more avoidance was the solution, not less.
Whatever the answer, I wanted—needed—to move on. I’d never forget her, but I needed her to stop mattering so much.
“If you’re not bitter, then you’ll stop avoiding me?” she challenged. “We’ll be friends again? I’ll call you on Tuesdays and describe my enchiladas and you’ll take the call?”
No. No way.
Friendship would never be possible.
I rubbed my forehead, my stare falling to the ground. “I have enough friends.”
Simone made a sound, tugging me to a stop. “You are such a liar.” Her tone was frustrated as she came around to stand in front of me, holding my hand with both of hers. “Whatever it is, why can’t you tell me? Tell me what it is and we’ll fix it so we can both let it go.”
“I have let it go.” I glanced over her head, moving my attention to the bed of the truck.
“You have not.” I felt her eyes on me and I pushed the awareness of that away. But then she said, “You can’t even look at me,” like she was thinking it and saying it at the same time.
I closed my eyes and breathed out. “It’s late—”
“I hate that this matters to me, but inexplicably it does.” She sounded fraught, so unlike herself. “Unfortunately, I can’t ignore and avoid like you can. I have to know.”
“Simone—”
“What did I do? Please, just tell me.” Her words were rushed, nervous, and a little breathless, like she was afraid of the question, or maybe my answer.
Her tone reminded me of so many other times, so many other questions, and a collection of scenes from our shared moments arranged themselves, a spectrum of spectral sights, sounds, and emotions.
The time she asked me if I would teach her how to fight. We’d been ten. She’d been wearing a red shirt and blue jeans, her hair in a ton of long braids. Her forearm was bruised just below the elbow and she wouldn’t tell me who’d done it.
The time she asked me to identify a snake within striking distance of her bare foot. We’d been twelve and it was the last time she’d gone barefoot in the woods.
The time she dared me to go skinny-dipping in Bandit Lake. We’d been fifteen and her daddy interrupted us before any clothes had been removed.
The time she asked me to be her cotillion escort. We’d been sixteen and I’d just given her my chocolate milk in trade for her Gatorade.
That time she asked me to teach her how to kiss. . .
The side of my mouth tugged upward, an involuntary response.
“I need . . .” she whispered, and I sensed her move before I felt her hand on my cheek.
I opened my eyes just in time to see a stunning mix of emotions behind hers, the most prevalent being confusion and desire.
Shocked speechless, I held completely still as she stepped forward, closed her eyes, pressed the warm length of her body against mine, and lifted her chin.
And then she kissed me.
Chapter Ten
“The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we'd done were less real and important than they had been hours before.”
John Green, The Fault in Our Stars
*Simon
e*
I kissed him.
Placing the blame on my pretend terminal brain disease non-diagnosis wasn’t an option this time.
I kissed him because he was just so damn soulful, and sexy, and funny, and sweet, and smart, and cool, and did I mention sexy? Dammit.
So, yeah, I kissed him because I wanted to. Because apparently I missed this man who I didn’t know anymore, and being with him this evening had been equal parts confusing and wonderful. It had been like lying on a raft, floating on a body of water beneath the stars, and trusting it would always carry me safely.
Many, many questions.
Why had I felt safe? I shouldn’t have, but I did. He made me feel that way.
I’d been myself, truly myself, in ways I’d forgotten existed, in ways I’d only experienced when I’d been with Roscoe. I felt relaxed and known and understood.
And, dammit, I just really freaking liked him. I wanted to touch him. With my mouth. I wanted him to touch me. Also with his mouth.
But my kiss had clearly surprised Roscoe. When our lips met, I felt him start, like I’d given him a shock. When my arms twisted around his neck and I pressed my lips more insistently to his, I felt his body go rigid.
Eh . . . Not a good sign.
However, when I lifted to my toes, my body shifting against his, a slight friction, and touched his lips lightly with my tongue, the world tilted on its axis.
Because Roscoe kissed me back.
And boy oh boy oh boy oh boy did he kiss me back.
His strong arms came around my torso and crushed me to him; one hand slipping into my back pocket and cupping my bottom; the other fisted in my hair and tugged, opening my mouth so he could taste every inch of my mouth. His hot tongue swept inside and—I know this sounds totally silly—claimed me.
That’s right. Claimed.
Another Neanderthal display that I actually felt . . . really, really good about. Like, if our high school had held pep rallies for Roscoe kissing me like this? It would have made sense. I wouldn’t have spent one second daydreaming about my science fair project. The cheerleader mania would’ve been completely understandable and justified. Heck, once it ended, I might cheer.