by Ginger Scott
I open my mouth, my brow pinching with guilt; I hate the thought of pushing him out of his room, but Andrew holds a hand up quickly. “No questioning me. Not tonight. I’m too nervous about everything being perfect for you to question tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. Andrew closes his eyes, his smile once again relieved.
He pushes his door open, holding his arm out to direct me inside, where there are three gigantic boxes placed on the floor—wrapped in purple paper with white bows.
“Purple’s my favorite color,” I say.
“I know,” he says in return. “Go on. Open them.”
I look to him nervously, but move to the first box, excited to see what’s inside. I tear away the tissue paper and pull off the lid to find two enormous Care Bears sitting inside. I lift them up and cradle each one on a hip, like they’re children, and the silliness of them makes me giggle.
“Okay, so hear me out,” Andrew starts, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. “That one there, the blue one? His name is Grumpy or Grouchy or…”
“Grumpy,” I confirm for him, my mouth aching from my smile.
“Good, right. Well, Grumpy…that one’s me. He’s got this cloud that follows him around, and he’s just generally blue and mopey and shit, and he doesn’t really have any friends, other than this yellow bear here with the sunshine on it’s stomach.”
“Funshine Bear,” I answer, looking over at the yellow bear on my other hip.
“Right…wait…Funshine? That’s really his name?” Andrew asks. I nod yes.
“Wow, this is getting even lamer, and I’m really embarrassed,” he says.
“Don’t be,” I say, catching his gaze before it falls. He squints one eye, questioning me. “So far, this is really sweet. Keep going.”
He nods, his cheeks dented with the dimples of the smile he’s trying to hide. The bashful boy from our youth is coming out to play, and it makes my heart soar to see.
“Okay, well Funshine, or as I called him, Happiness…this one’s you. She’s Grumpy’s only friend in the world. And she’s the only one that can make Grumpy forget about the damn cloud stuck on his body. He needs her. Without her, he’s just not…well, without her there’s just too much of the cloud,” Andrew says, his mouth settling into a more serious smile. I notice how fast his chest is rising and falling, how hard he’s breathing. He’s scared.
I look at both of the bears and squeeze them to my body, then look back at him. “I love them. I’m keeping them with me all night,” I say, and his lips slowly curl up again.
“Good,” he nods, looking down. When he glances back up, he gestures to the second box. “Go on. Open it.”
I tuck both bears under my left arm and move to the second box, working with one hand to unwrap it. I finally get the lid off the top and when I look down, I notice a pair of pink and white ice skates that look to be my size. I flash my eyes back to Andrew’s, smiling.
“Holding your hand on the ice is the one memory I turned to when my cloud got really dark and heavy and hopeless. I’d like to take you skating tonight, at the rink, so I can hold your hand…if you’ll let me?”
He’s not breathing as hard as before, but he still sucks his bottom lip in, anxious for my answer. I nod yes quickly, then move to the third box. Before I can dig into the paper, though, Andrew places his hand on top, stopping me.
“This one comes at the end. It’s…well…it’s sort of important that I keep everything in order. When we get back from the rink, I’ll let you open it up,” he says, his head leaned to the side, his eyes pleading.
“Okay,” I say.
He’s close enough that he could kiss me. I want him to. He never does, though. Instead, his eyes dance over me, following the curve of my face and line along my shoulders. For class, I changed into one of my turtlenecks and jeans, but I crave the warm feeling of being in his clothes again.
“You look nice,” I say to him, my eyes moving to the top of his head, to the hair that’s usually stuffed under a hat or twisted in all directions. He runs his hands through it, smoothing it back again, but messing it up just enough that a few strands fall forward over his brow, somehow making him even sexier.
“This is the best I’ve got,” he says, arms outstretched. “I’m not really a suit-and-tie kind of guy.”
It’s my turn to let my eyes roam down him, his wide chest and thin waist, his arms filling the fabric of his shirt, his jeans tight around his muscular legs. I bite my lip on one side and smile through the other.
“I like this look better anyhow,” I say, peering up at him.
His lips fall open with a breath, and I hold mine, thinking that maybe now he’ll kiss me. But he closes his mouth quickly, smiling and taking a step back.
“We should get to the rink. I managed to find a half an hour that it’s not being used, and the guy doing me a favor will be pissed if we’re late,” he says.
“Okay,” I say softly, holding my bears tightly.
Andrew picks my backpack up from the floor and slings it over his shoulder, then tugs at the bears in my hand. I resist at first.
“You can’t skate with these,” he chuckles. “But…I’ll put them with your things. You can have them back the second we get home.”
Home.
How strange that he feels like home. And yet, how very not strange at all.
“Okay,” I say again. I’m unable to do anything but agree with him. It’s not that I owe him. It’s that I want to go along with him. I meant what I said last night—I trust Andrew Harper…with my life.
I let him guide me back outside after he deposits my things in his room, and when he opens the door of his car for me, I force myself to keep my thoughts ahead—to focus on the future and possibilities rather than the past. Andrew’s careful with me, taking my hand as I sit in the low bucket seat. He leans forward through the door as I buckle the belt, his head cocked to one side, silently asking me if I’m all right—the last ride in this car flooded me with painful memories.
I smile at him when my belt clicks, and his eyes skim down my body, down my legs, then back to my lips, and they quiver under the heat of his stare. Nothing about the way he’s looking at me feels threatening or possessive; it’s adoring, and it makes my palms sweat. Adored is exactly how I always wanted to feel, and I haven’t felt it since he left my life five years ago.
He exhales slowly, backing away from the door and nudging it closed with the tips of his fingers, bringing both of his hands up to his mouth and closing his eyes as he continues to back away, shaking his head and smirking underneath it all.
When he gets into his seat, sliding in, buckling, and starting the engine, I question the soft chuckle and grin he’s still wearing. He looks into his rearview mirror, almost like he’s working extra hard not to look at me again. The tension causes my heart to speed up.
“What is it? Come on, Andrew…don’t tease,” I say.
His eyes shut; he laughs once again, his head falling forward, then his eyes open as he leans to the side, resting his head on his steering wheel.
“You have no idea how you bewitch me, Emma Burke,” he says, his teeth dragging his bottom lip, his tongue caught in their snare next. “No idea.”
His eyes wander around my face, and in that instant I see it—Andrew Harper is worshiping me. My heart drums louder, and I tuck my hands underneath my legs, holding my own breath.
The trip to the rink is short, and we spend those few minutes both blushing and taking small peeks at each other, like grade-schoolers who’ve passed notes back and forth and have just gotten thrown together in some playground tunnel. I don’t know what to do or how to act—only that I know I want to leap onto his lap right now and never let go.
I stay put, and wait for Andrew to round the car to open my door for me on his insistence that I let him play gentleman for the night. He walks me up to the back door of the rink, and hands a guy a fifty-dollar bill before we slip inside. I wince at the amount of money, knowi
ng how he earns it, and how little he has to throw away. But the slight smile he gives me keeps me from protesting. He’s proud of this date—and I am going to love every second of it.
“Are we supposed to be here?” I ask, noticing most of the lights are off, minus three or four shining on the center of the ice.
“Define…supposed to,” Andrew says, rolling his neck and grimacing at me.
I stop and watch him take a few steps in front of me, his body older, his legs longer, his look so very much the Prince Charming I’ve cast in my dreams. He was the original—the only.
“I don’t think I should define it. I have a feeling the answer’s no either way, so I’m just gonna go with the flow,” I say, a little nervous that we’re breaking a rule—a little excited by it, too.
“Probably for the best,” he winks.
We slip through a small opening in the bleachers, and Andrew reaches for my hand, linking a few of his fingers with mine to guide me to my seat. When he stops, he doesn’t let go of his slight hold, but turns to the side, his chin toward me and his breath tickling against my neck.
“Do you…” He stops, swallowing hard. “Do you need help with your skates?” I get the immediate sense that’s not what he really wanted to ask. I know it’s not what I wanted him to say.
I shake my head in tepid movements and take my skates from his other hand and sit to lace them. Andrew sits across from me, and when his skates are done, he slides his toe forward, knocking his blade into mine. We both look at it, then gaze up at each other, instantly breaking into laughter.
“I think you have a foot fetish,” I tease as he reaches a hand out and helps me to stand.
Andrew shakes his head slightly as we scoot along the rubber floor out to the ice, his grip growing in strength. We switch to the icy floor and my skates begin to slide out from under me. His arm swiftly moves from my hand to around my body, steadying me on my wobbly legs, and he chuckles to himself.
“Emma, I don’t have a foot obsession…I have a you obsession,” he says, and my breath stops short, my ears working hard to make sure they heard that right, my heart secretly knowing they did.
Andrew leads me slowly to the other end of the rink, careful to keep us closer to the center of the ice, where the light reaches. We’re far away from the wall, though, so my grip on him is a little more desperate, and I wonder if that, too, was maybe part of the plan.
“You’re better on your feet this time,” he smiles.
I giggle because just as he says it, my left leg sweeps out from under me, and I nearly fall on my ass. Andrew’s hands are fast, though, and he saves me again, this time spinning me around so I’m facing him, his hands under my elbows and forehead against mine as we both stare at my awkward feet.
“Sorry,” I say. It comes out in a breath, very little sound, because being in front of him like this brings me back to our last kiss—a feeling I want again so desperately.
I roll my head against him and shut my eyes, letting him guide me in a slow circle around the middle of the rink.
“Hey, it’s our first dance,” he says. I pull my head back a few inches and spare a glance at him, glad I did as the right side of his mouth is raised just enough to leave a dimple.
“It is,” I say. “You would have been such a better date for prom.”
His smile fades, and I kick myself for mentioning anything about those years that we missed.
“I would have taken you,” he says, his words coming out a little somber. I feel his fingers move along my sides, almost as if they’re grasping to hold onto me tighter—to keep me from going away. I dare myself to move in closer to him, to embrace him more, and his grasp tightens again to steady me. He wants me here, too.
“I didn’t have a real prom date for my senior prom,” I say.
“Liar,” he challenges. I feel his body shake against me in quiet laughter. He thinks I pity him.
“No, really. I went with a few girlfriends. I don’t even have a picture,” I say, closing my eyes as I rest my head against his chest. “And that dance you saw me getting ready for—homecoming, junior year—was a guy who just wanted a date to make someone else jealous. He was the first guy I thought was really into me since you. He left with the other girl.”
I feel the rhythm of his heart against my cheek, and I let myself imagine what our prom pictures would have looked like—what Andrew would have looked like, how he never would have let go of my hand the entire night.
“I’m really sorry, Emma,” he says, his chin resting on top of my head now, all of him cradling me. “I really wish I was there.”
We’re moving in inches, my feet never leaving the ice, letting him do the work and gliding us in slow motion with no destination in mind. In his embrace, and out of his view, I let a single tear slide down my cheek, because I really wish he were there, too.
“You’re here now,” I say, my voice raspy and giving me away. He squeezes me tighter, and I shake with one more cry, bringing a hand up to wipe the tear from my cheek before he sees it.
“I am,” he says softly. “I am.”
I can feel him breathe, and I can feel the pause each time he opens his mouth, wanting to say something more.
“You can tell me anything,” I say, finally. “Really. Anything, Andrew.”
I feel him swallow hard.
“We don’t have to talk about it…if you don’t want to. But Graham…” My stomach revolts just hearing his name, and I clutch to Andrew a little harder. His hand finds the back of my head, stroking my hair and cradling me. “Did he…?”
I shake my head quickly, knowing what Andrew’s worry is, and thankful that there was help and that I was able to fight just long enough, loud enough. “He only hit me. He tried—” I stop short before retelling everything.
Andrew whispers “Shhh,” above my head and adjusts me in his cradle once more. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop him from hitting you, Emma. So very sorry,” he says.
“Like I said…you’re here now…” I say against him.
We sway in our hold on each other for the next fifteen minutes, until a bright light clicks on near the exit, and Andrew sighs, waving a hand to his friend who let us in. He never lets go of me for long, though, guiding me safely back to the bench and swiftly finding my hand again once our skates are off and we’re walking to the car.
We drive back to his apartment in a rush, and I notice Andrew’s left leg bouncing with his nerves. He grinds the gear on his car as he pulls into a space along his street, and I hold my lips in a tight line to hide my smirk.
I start to step out from his car on my own, but he tells me to wait, rushing around the front so he can open it for me. He doesn’t grab my hand this time, though, instead, both of his hands tugging at the Tech University tag on his key chain, his fingers wrestling with the apartment key I returned to him after Trent made me a copy of his. He’s nervous as we approach the door, and he drops his keys once in his attempt to unlock his apartment, finally opening the door and gesturing for me to step inside before him. He sets his things on a small table near his door then runs his hands through his hair, completely destroying the combed shape, returning his hair to his normal messy look. I secretly like it better this way.
His hands in his pockets, he steps forward a few paces, his posture nearly perfect and his shoulders raised high as his feet move nervously.
“My plan was to have you open the last box now,” he says, shrugging toward it. I step in that direction, but he begins to talk again, so I stop. “I want you to open it. I do. And I’ll let you. It’s just…when I thought this whole evening out, I was…I don’t know…really…”
“Oh god, were you drunk date-planning?” I tease.
“No!” he says, rolling his eyes. “I was just…I don’t know…overly romanticizing things maybe? And now that we’re here, and I’m standing here, and you’re all beautiful, and you smell good, and you feel good, and I’ve held you, and—”
“Andrew…” I sigh,
stepping closer to him, placing a hand on his arm, tugging his hand free from his pocket. I lace my fingers with his, pulling his hand to my lips, and pressing a soft kiss against the back of his hand—leaving my lips there as he watches with his mouth hung open.
“Gah! Emma,” he says, his eyes scanning down the rest of my body now, the heat there this time—the desire and greed mixing with the amber color of his eyes. “You can open the last box,” he says. “Just…if this seems really silly or childish when you see what’s inside, just know that the sentiment is maybe the most adult thing I’ve ever done in my whole goddamned life.”
My heart starts to race, and I have a small panic over what could be in that box. I glance from him to the box and back again a few times, moving my hands slowly to the paper and the lid, checking with him constantly for reassurance. I tear the paper away completely, and lift the lid, still turning to watch Andrew, to watch his reaction. With the lid off, I lean over the large box to look inside, seeing only a small paper folded at the bottom. Andrew nods toward it, urging me to pick it up and open it. I reach in, unfolding it to reveal a simple word written inside.
Me.
My brow pinches as I struggle to understand, but soon Andrew’s hands are around mine, gripping the paper with me.
“Me,” he says, reciting the word. “If you want me—you have me. Or…more clearly…I’m yours.”
I blink, staring at his hands, listening to him hand over his heart, and my own beats louder than it ever has, its strength growing by the second, the thump echoing in my chest.
“God, Emma. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. From the moment I saw the dark silk of your hair and the storm in your eyes, I was a lost cause…lost to you. I’ve been through hell, and I would go again. I would go willingly, and would charge through the gates if it meant it would keep you safe.”
My lips part open with a tiny gasp, and my chest shudders at the beautiful honesty of his words—of his promise that I in no possible way deserve.