by B. E. Baker
Until it finally stops. On me.
My eyes snap up reflexively, wide with shock. Wesley doesn’t even seem surprised. He simply stands and inclines his head toward the shed.
“Isn’t it still...” I clear my throat. “Umm, occupied?”
“We can wait over there.” He gestures at the hill to the right of the shed. One side of his mouth lifts in a smile and I feel an answering grin form on my lips. Which makes me think about what we’re about to do with our lips.
Swarms and swarms of butterflies flutter in my chest.
“Sure,” I say.
I stand up and without even thinking, I wipe my palms on my jeans. They aren’t even sweaty and what’s more, I’m wearing mittens! I really hope no one noticed. Okay, more specifically, I hope Wesley didn’t notice. Gemette holds something out to me when I stand. I can’t tell what it is from feel alone thanks to my thick mittens, and in the dark I have to squint to make it out at all. A tube of something. “What—”
“Lip gloss,” she whispers. “A gift from my mom. I was going to use it, but looks like you need it more, you lucky, lip-biting brat.” She winks.
I’m glad Wesley’s still across the fire from me and that it’s dark. Maybe he somehow miraculously missed both the palm wipe and her wink.
I walk as slowly as I can toward the old shed, partially to avoid tripping, but also so I won’t look overeager. I try to hide my face while I apply the fruit-scented lip-gloss so that Wesley won’t notice. It’s dark, but I don’t want him to be put off by dry, scratchy lips, or worse, dried blood. Gemette’s a good friend. I feel guilty for overreacting earlier when I thought she might kiss Wesley. Not super guilty, but you know, a little.
Neither of us speaks a word, but I feel the eyes of the other teens follow us toward the shed. We’re only a few crunching steps away when the swinging door flies open and Tom and Annelise barrel out. I jump when it bangs shut behind them.
Tom looks as ruffled as I feel, his eyes darting back and forth. He ducks his head and reaches down to take Annelise’s hand. They walk out and away from the fire and the rest of Port Gibson’s teens. I can’t tell where they’re headed, but somewhere far away from here.
“Did you know almost a third of the couples in town trace their start to the Last Supper?” Wesley asks.
“No way.”
He shrugs. “We’ve only been an Unmarked town for seven years, so it’s even more impressive. Not all of them are matched up from a bottle spin, but I think the game helps people realize how they feel.”
A thrill rushes through me. Does Wesley feel the same as me?
My hand reaches for the door handle and collides en route with his. I’m wearing mittens, of course, and he’s wearing shiny, brown gloves, but a thrill runs through me when we touch, even through layers. He doesn’t move his hand away, but instead draws my hand in his and pushes the door handle back in one fluid movement. My heart skips a beat and time stops. When the door’s completely open, he slowly releases my hand. I lower my eyes and step over the threshold into the rundown little building.
Although there’s clearly no power, and consequently neither heat nor an overhead light, the walls at least cut the wind. It’s at once both warmer and quieter. Two tall candles burn softly on a pile of rusted metal boxes in the corner. Someone prepared this dump, I realize. I wonder whether it was Wesley. The flames provide enough light that I can see his face. His dark brows are an even more startling contrast to his dark blue eyes than usual, accentuated by his hair falling in his face.
“So,” I say. “Here we are.”
Wesley looks at me from less than a foot away. The shed’s small and crammed full of moldering farm implements. The air around us practically hums, but that isn’t new. It’s always like the moments right before a lightning storm when he’s near. Supercharged almost, like the electrons around my body might fly off at his slightest touch. The difference is that here, away from the town’s work projects, away from my family and his, it feels like anything really could happen.
Wesley’s so close I can smell him, the same citrusy, woodsy smell I’ve secretly savored for years. It’s even stronger tonight, like he put on more of whatever it is he usually wears. I breathe deep, and all the memories of him re-imprint on my brain. Scrubbing, sanding, painting, digging, cleaning, hammering. Projects his dad made him attend, but I suffered through to be near him. When I’m with him, I belong somewhere for the first time in a decade.
When we become adults next week, Wesley’s mandatory attendance at work projects ends. Wesley steps into his role as an administrator, and I’ll become part of Port Gibson’s janitorial crew. It’s now or never if I want to make any kind of permanent place with Wesley.
I never thought I’d be close to him like this, and I know I may never be again. I lean toward him and tilt my face upward, eyes closed, ready for what comes next. Maybe I’m even a touch impatient. I have waited for this for years.
Except I keep waiting, and then I wait some more.
Not a single thing happens. The trouble with being ridiculously small is that Wesley, who’s on the tall side anyway, towers over me. Even with my face angled up, his lips are pretty far away. I can barely make out his expression, but it looks guarded.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to do it?
No way. Wesley must know. I mean, it’s not hard, right? You just push your lips onto the other person’s mouth. Why isn’t he doing anything? This is the moment. THE moment!
Until it passes. And then another moment falls on top of it, and another. All passing. Even the butterflies in my stomach get bored and go look for flowers elsewhere.
I’m not sure exactly how much time has elapsed, but the seconds drag, heavy with my growing frustration. Soon, someone will bang on the door. “You’ve been in there forever,” they’ll say. “Make room for the next couple.”
I want to smack them in their eager faces.
I know I don’t have much time, and I want to say something, anything. I need to tell him how I feel, say the words, take a gamble. But like it always does, my tongue shuts down. My throat closes off. The words stick inside my throat. Why am I such a coward? Our perfect moment withers and dies. Tears well up in my eyes, and I can’t breathe.
Wesley isn’t similarly affected. He steps back and says, “We don’t have to do this, Ruby. It’s not safe at all. I don’t know why my dad even lets these dinners happen.”
“Why’d you spin the bottle in the first place?” I hear the desperation in my voice, but the words pour out in spite of myself. “I know you, and you know me. How’s it dangerous for us?”
He takes another step back, his expression registering surprise. “People get Marked, Ruby. It still happens. Every few weeks, in fact. Maybe I’m Marked. You don’t know. It happens, even here, even with all our rules. It may take years to die once you’re Marked, but it’s inevitable.”
I roll my eyes. “Well I’m not Marked, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I point at my forehead. “See? Clear.”
“We shouldn’t be taking these risks.” Wesley scowls. “Not now, not right before our real lives begin. This whole thing’s supposed to be a time to say goodbye to being a kid, not act like an idiotic five-year-old, breaking rules for no reason.”
Our real lives? Maybe he never thought it felt right, the time we spent, the way we are together. Maybe I never belonged with him at all. “Why’d you even come, then? Why follow me in here if you’re not going to kiss me?”
Was he hoping for someone else? Was he stuck with me and looking for any excuse to bolt? Am I Evan in this scenario?
I look up, but I’m too close. The hair cascading over his face obscures my view. I want to touch his hair; I want to kiss him; I want to tell him I love him, and that I always have. My fingers and toes and everything connecting them zings in spite of the bitter cold, in spite of the indifference of his words. Energy spins round and round in my body, a closed circuit with nowhere to go.
“Look, Ru
by, I don’t know what to say . . . but the thing is . . .” He sounds torn, confused.
Suddenly, I don’t want to hear “the thing,” whatever it is. I’ve been talking to Wesley for years, talking and talking, and working alongside him, but I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I know what I want and I’ll never have a better chance to play things off as part of a game, if he feels like I now suspect he does. The notion of an excuse appeals to my cowardly heart. I can’t speak the words, but I won’t stand here and do nothing, not anymore, because he’s the real life I’ve longed for.
I stop thinking and step toward him instead. He tries to step back and slams up against the back wall. I quickly take one more step and use my gloved hand to pull his head down to mine. I push my lips against his. In my haste, I push too hard and pull a little too fast. Our teeth smack into each other and my tooth knocks against my own lip, splitting it wide open again.
It’s the opposite of magical.
I look up at Wesley instinctively. He has blood on his mouth, but whether it’s his, or mine, I can’t tell. And if it’s not awful enough already, Wesley stiffens from head to toe like I mauled him, like I forced him into something torturous.
A tear rolls down my cheek and I inhale deeply. I won’t cry over this. I can’t, because there‘s no way I can play it all off as a game if I bawl my eyes out. I turn away from him. If I can’t stop the tears, at least he doesn’t need to see them. When did this go so wrong? I should be calm, cool, in control. I need to laugh it all off and tell him friends can’t be expected to kiss well. Whoops.
Except my heart won‘t listen to the screaming from my head. I’m not calm. I’m the opposite of cool. I’ve lost all control.
He grabs my shoulder and tugs me around. I turn, but my eyes stay glued to the ground, too ashamed to meet his gaze.
“Ruby, look at me.”
He puts two gloved fingers under my chin and lifts. His head comes down then, but slowly, too slowly. My heart stops pumping and I worry it might never beat again. His lips brush mine gently, then with more pressure. I ignore the discomfort of my torn lip and lean into him, connected to him in a way I can’t explain. I need more air, but I want less, because that means more space between us. If this never ends, maybe it’ll erase the moments that preceded it.
Suddenly, he lets me go and steps back. Emptiness fills the space where he stood. I reel again, sucking air in and blowing my breath back out to steady myself.
When I raise my eyes, our gazes lock. All my sorrow from before is gone, replaced with a feeling like I’m flying, soaring, floating on top of the world. His sapphire blue eyes reflect candlelight back at me. He’s breathing as deeply as I am; he’s as affected as me. I can’t look away from his strong, almost hawkish nose, his square jaw, his flashing eyes and thick black lashes. I continue to stare as Wesley reaches up and brushes his unkempt hair away from his eyes.
I almost faint.
Such a simple movement. Small in the grand scheme of things, but also vast, earth shattering, all encompassing. My dreams crumble. My world spins out of control. He moves his hair off his forehead, and suddenly things make sense. His reticence to touch me, his skittishness, but also his quick recovery. Once he knew it was too late, he didn’t hesitate to kiss me.
Because we’d already touched.
A tiny rash mars his otherwise perfect forehead. Before the world died, it wouldn’t have mattered. Before the Marking, no one would have cared about a few bumps. It would be harmless: acne, a bug bite, or a reaction to hair product. It shouldn’t matter that his forehead has a blemish. It shouldn’t terrify me, but it does. Because that small rash means Wesley is Marked, and in under three years, he’s going to die terribly.
And now, so am I.
And if you liked Marked, grab it now.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, as always, I have to thank my husband. He has been unfailingly supportive from the very beginning, and he continues to be exactly the same. (Or possibly, honestly, MORE supportive.)
My kids are right behind him in their excitement and genuine desire to help. And my parents have been extremely helpful on this book (and all of them, really) to lend a hand or have the kids come visit so that I can get the words down on the screen! All my love to my family.
I would like to take this opportunity NOT to thank my horses, as they definitely split my focus between writing and riding… :P
And my fans—you guys are EVERYTHING to me. Your kind comments on fb ads, your emails, your reviews, they make my day, my week, and sometimes even my month.
My advance team readers—you guys are THE BEST. I love you so much!!
My editor Carrie Harris—you are the hyphen queen. Thank you for making me look smarter than I really am.
About the Author
Bridget loves her husband (every day) and all five of her kids (most days). She’s a lawyer, but does as little legal work as possible. She has two goofy horses, two scrappy cats, and one bouncy dog. She hates Oxford commas, but she uses them to try and keep fans from complaining. She makes cookies waaaaay too often and believes they should be their own food group. To keep from blowing up like a puffer fish, she kick boxes every day. So if you don’t like her books, her kids, her pets, or her cookies, maybe don’t tell her in person.
Also by B. E. Baker
The Finding Home Series:
Finding Faith (1)
Finding Cupid (2)
Finding Spring (3)
Finding Liberty (4)
Finding Holly (5)
Finding Home (6)
Finding Balance (7)
Finding Peace (8)
The Finding Home Series Boxset Books 1-3
The Finding Home Series Boxset Books 4-6
Books by Bridget E. Baker (same writer, but I use a different name for my fantasy and end of the world genre books!)
The Birthright Series:
Displaced (1)
unForgiven (2)
Disillusioned (3)
misUnderstood (4)
Disavowed (5)
unRepentant (6)
Destroyed (7)
The Birthright Series Collection, Books 1-3
The Sins of Our Ancestors Series:
Marked (1)
Suppressed (2)
Redeemed (3)
Renounced (4)
The Anchored Series:
Anchored (1)
Adrift (2)
Awoken (3—releasing July 15, 2021)
Capsized (4—releasing September 15, 2021)
A stand alone YA romantic suspense:
Already Gone
Children’s Picture Book
Yuck! What’s for Dinner?
