I bring my hand up to her face and trace a line down her cheek. The feel of her skin beneath my fingertips is like silk. I keep trailing down her jaw, then her neck. My whole body is tense because I’m not sure if she feels all of this the way I do. I can’t imagine someone like Grayson could be lucky enough to touch her face or taste her mouth and that he wouldn’t care if she was even enjoying it or not.
When my hand reaches her shoulder, I stop and look her in the eyes. “I want to kiss you,” I say. “Believe me, I do.”
So, so bad.
I remove my hand from her shoulder and bring it up to her cheek. She leans into my hand and looks up at me, her eyes full of disappointment. “But if you really want to, then why don’t you?”
Ugh. I hate that look. If she keeps looking at me like that I’ll lose every shred of willpower I have left. Which isn’t much.
I tilt her face up to mine. “Because,” I whisper. “I’m afraid you won’t feel it.”
The look on her face when I say it is a mixture of realization and regret. She knows I’m referring to her lack of response to other guys and I’m not sure she knows how to respond. She’s silent, but I just want her to argue with me. I want her to tell me how wrong I am. I want her to tell me she already feels like I do, but instead she just nods and covers my hand with hers.
I close my eyes, wishing she had responded any other way. But the fact that she didn’t just proves that not kissing her tonight is exactly what needs to happen. I don’t understand why she’s so closed off, but I’ll wait however long I have to. There’s no way I could walk away from this girl now.
I pull her away from the refrigerator and wrap my arms around her. She slowly returns the embrace by clasping her arms around my waist and conforming to my chest. She willingly leans into me and just feeling her want me to hold her is better than anything I’ve felt this entire year. All she did was hug me back, but little does she know she just knocked a whole lot of life back into me. I press my lips into her hair and inhale. I could stay like this all night.
But the damn oven timer dings, reminding me that I’m cooking her dinner. If it means having to let her go, I’d rather starve. But I promised to cook for her, so I release my hold from around her and take a step back.
The embarrassed and almost heartbroken look on her face is the last thing I expect to see. She drops her gaze down at the floor and I realize that I just disappointed her. A lot. All I’m trying to do is go at a pace that’s best for her. I can’t have her thinking that I’m going slow because it’s my choice. Because if she didn’t have whatever issue it is she has with guys, we wouldn’t be standing in this kitchen right now. We’d be back on her bed just like we were last night, only this time she wouldn’t be reading to me.
I grab both of her hands and interlock our fingers. “Look at me.” She hesitantly lifts her face and looks at me. “Sky, I’m not kissing you tonight but believe me when I tell you, I’ve never wanted to kiss a girl more. So stop thinking I’m not attracted to you because you have no idea just how much I am. You can hold my hand, you can run your fingers through my hair, you can straddle me while I feed you spaghetti, but you are not getting kissed tonight. And probably not tomorrow, either. I need this. I need to know for sure that you’re feeling every single thing that I’m feeling the moment my lips touch yours. Because I want your first kiss to be the best first kiss in the history of first kisses.”
The sadness is gone from her eyes now and she’s actually smiling at me. I lift her hand and kiss it. “Now stop sulking and help me finish the meatballs. Okay?” I ask, wanting reassurance from her that she believes me. “Is that enough to get you through a couple more dates?”
She nods, still smiling. “Yep. But you’re wrong about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You said you want my first kiss to be the best first kiss, but this won’t be my first kiss. You know that.”
I don’t know how to break it to her, but she hasn’t been kissed before. Not like she deserves, anyway. I hate that she doesn’t realize this, so I take it upon myself to show her exactly what a real kiss feels like.
I let go of her hands and cup her face, walking her back against the refrigerator. I lean in until I can feel her breath on my lips and she gasps. I love the helpless, hungry look in her eyes right now, but it doesn’t compare to what it does to me when she bites her lip.
“Let me inform you of something,” I say, lowering my voice. “The moment my lips touch yours, it will be your first kiss. Because if you’ve never felt anything when someone’s kissed you, then no one’s ever really kissed you. Not the way I plan on kissing you.”
She exhales a pent-up breath and her arms are covered in chills again.
She felt that.
I grin victoriously and back away from her, then turn my attention to the stove. I can hear her sliding down the refrigerator. I turn around and she’s sitting on the floor, looking up at me in shock. I laugh.
“You okay?” I say with a wink.
She smiles up at me from the floor and pulls her legs up to her chest with a shrug. “My legs stopped working.” She laughs. “Must be because I’m so attracted to you,” she says sarcastically.
I look around the kitchen. “You think your mother has a tincture for people who are too attracted to me?”
“My mother has a tincture for everything,” she says.
I walk over and take her hand, then pull her up. I press my hand against the small of her back and pull her against me. She looks up at me with hooded eyes and a small gasp parts her lips. I lower my mouth to her ear and whisper, “Well, whatever you do . . . make sure you never take that tincture.”
Her chest rises against mine and she’s looking into my eyes like everything I’ve said tonight meant nothing. She wants me to kiss her and she doesn’t care that I’m doing everything in my power not to.
I slide my hand down her back and slap her on the ass. “Focus, girl. We have food to cook.”
* * *
“Okay, I have one,” she says, placing her cup down on the table.
We’re playing a game she suggested called Dinner Quest, where no question is off limits and eating and drinking isn’t allowed until the question has been answered. I’ve never heard of it, but I like the thought of being able to ask her anything I want to ask her.
“Why did you follow me to my car at the grocery store?” she asks.
I shrug. “Like I said, I thought you were someone else.”
“I know,” she says. “But who?”
Maybe I don’t want to play this game. I’m not ready to tell her about Hope. I’m definitely not ready to tell her about Les, but there’s no way around it because my answer just dug me into a hole. I shift in my seat and reach for my drink, but she snatches it out of my hands.
“No drinks. Answer the question first.” She sets my drink back down on the table and waits for my explanation. I really don’t want to go into my screwed up past, so I try to keep my answer simple.
“I wasn’t sure who you reminded me of,” I lie. “You just reminded me of someone. I didn’t realize until later that you reminded me of my sister.”
She makes a face and says, “I remind you of your sister? That’s kind of gross, Holder.”
Oh, shit. That’s not at all what I meant. “No, not like that. Not like that at all, you don’t even look anything like she did. There was just something about seeing you that made me think of her. And I don’t even know why I followed you. It was all so surreal. The whole situation was a little bizarre, and then running into you in front of my house later . . .”
Should I really tell her how that made me feel? How I thought for sure Les had something to do with it or that it was divine intervention or a freaking miracle? Because I honestly feel like it was too perfect to be chalked up to coincidence.
“It was like it was meant to happen,” I finally say.
She inhales a deep breath and I look up at her, afraid of how forward t
hat might have been. She smiles at me and points to my drink. “You can drink now,” she says. “Your turn to ask me a question.”
“Oh, this one’s easy. I want to know whose toes I’m stepping on. I received a mysterious inbox message from someone today. All it said was, ‘If you’re dating my girl, get your own prepaid minutes and quit wasting mine, jackass.’”
“That would be Six,” she says, smiling. “The bearer of my daily doses of positive affirmation.”
Thank God.
“I was hoping you’d say that. Because I’m pretty competitive, and if it came from a guy, my response would not have been as nice.”
“You responded? What’d you say?”
“Is that your question? Because if it isn’t, I’m taking another bite.”
“Hold your horses and answer the question,” she says.
“Yes, I responded to her text. I said, ‘How do I buy more minutes?’”
Her cheeks redden and she grins. “I was only joking, that wasn’t my question. It’s still my turn.”
I drop my fork onto my plate and sigh at her stubbornness. “My food’s getting cold.”
She ignores my feigned irritation and she leans forward, looking me directly in the eyes. “I want to know about your sister. And why you referred to her in the past tense.”
Ah, shit. Did I refer to her in the past tense? I look up at the ceiling and sigh. “Ugh. You really ask the deep questions, huh?”
“That’s how the game is played. I didn’t make up the rules.”
I guess there’s no getting out of this explanation. But honestly, I don’t mind telling her. There are certain things about my past I’d rather not discuss, but Les doesn’t really feel like my past. She still feels very much a part of my present.
“Remember when I told you my family had a pretty fucked-up year last year?”
She nods, and I hate that I’m about to put a damper on our conversation. But she doesn’t like vague, so . . . “She died thirteen months ago. She killed herself, even though my mother would rather we use the term ‘purposely overdosed.’”
I keep my eyes locked on hers, waiting for the “I’m so sorry,” or the “It was meant to happen,” to come out of her mouth like it comes out of everyone else’s mouth.
“What was her name?” she asks. The fact that she even asks like she’s genuinely interested is unexpected.
“Lesslie. I called her Les.”
“Was she older than you?”
Only by three minutes. “We were twins,” I say, right before I take a bite.
Her eyes widen slightly and she reaches for her drink. I intercept her this time.
“My turn,” I say. Now that I know nothing is off limits, I ask her about the one thing she didn’t really want to talk about yesterday. “I want to know the story about your dad.”
She groans, but plays along. She knows she can’t refuse to answer that question, because I just completely opened up to her about Les.
“Like I said, I haven’t seen him since I was three. I don’t have any memories of him. At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Your mom doesn’t have any pictures of him?”
She cocks her head slightly, then leans back in her seat. “You remember when you said my mom looked really young? Well, it’s because she is. She adopted me.”
I drop my fork.
Adopted.
The genuine possibility that she could be Hope bombards my thoughts. It wouldn’t make sense that she was three when she was adopted, though, because Hope was five when she was taken. Unless she’s been lied to.
But what are the chances? And what are the chances that someone like Karen would be capable of stealing a child?
“What?” she asks. “You’ve never met anyone who was adopted?”
I realize the shock I’m feeling in my head and my heart is also registering in my expression. I clear my throat and try to regroup, but a million more questions are forming in my mind. “You were adopted when you were three? By Karen?”
She shakes her head. “I was put into foster care when I was three, after my biological mother died. My dad couldn’t raise me on his own. Or he didn’t want to raise me on his own. Either way, I’m fine with it. I lucked out with Karen and I have no urge whatsoever to go figure it all out. If he wanted to know where I was, he’d come find me.”
Her mother is dead? Hope’s mother is dead.
But Hope was never put into foster care and Hope’s dad didn’t put her up for adoption. It all makes absolutely no sense, but at the same time I can’t rule out the possibility. She’s either been fed complete lies about her past, or I’m going insane.
The latter is more likely.
“What does your tattoo mean?” she asks, pointing at it with her fork.
I look down at my arm and touch the letters that make up Hope’s name.
If she was Hope, she would remember the name. That’s the only thing that stops me from believing in the possibility that she could be Hope.
Hope would remember.
“It’s a reminder,” I say. “I got it after Les died.”
“A reminder for what?”
And this is the only answer she’ll get that’s vague, because I’m definitely not about to explain. “It’s a reminder of the people I’ve let down in my life.”
Her expression grows sympathetic. “This game’s not very fun, is it?”
“It’s really not.” I laugh. “It sort of sucks ass. But we need to keep going because I still have questions. Do you remember anything from before you were adopted?”
“Not really. Bits and pieces, but it comes to a point that, when you don’t have anyone to validate your memories, you just lose them all. The only thing I have from before Karen adopted me is some jewelry, and I have no idea who it came from. I can’t distinguish now between what was reality, dreams, or what I saw on TV.”
“Do you remember your mother?”
She pauses for a moment. “Karen is my mother,” she says flatly. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to push her. “My turn. Last question, then we eat dessert.”
“Do you think we even have enough dessert?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“Why did you beat him up?” she says, darkening the mood completely.
I don’t want to get into that one. I push my bowl away. I’ll just let her win this round. “You don’t want to know the answer to that, Sky. I’ll take the punishment.”
“But I do want to know.”
Just thinking about that day already has me worked up again. I pop my jaw to ease the tension. “Like I told you before, I beat him up because he was an asshole.”
“That’s vague,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t do vague.”
I know that I like her stubbornness, but I only like it when she’s not pushing me to bring up the past. But I also have no clue what she’s been told about the whole situation. I’ve made it a point to get her to open up to me and ask me questions so she can hear the truth from me. If I refuse to answer her, then she’ll stop opening up.
“It was my first week back at school since Les died,” I say. “She went to school there, too, so everyone knew what happened. I overheard the guy saying something about Les when I was passing him in the hallway. I disagreed with it, and I let him know. I took it too far and it came to a point when I was on top of him that I just didn’t care. I was hitting him, over and over, and I didn’t even care. The really fucked-up part is that the kid will more than likely be deaf out of his left ear for the rest of his life, and I still don’t care.”
My fist is clenched on the table. Just thinking about the way everyone acted after she died has me pissed off all over again.
“What did he say about her?”
I lean back in my chair and my eyes drop to the table between us. I don’t really feel like looking her in the eyes when I’m only thinking about stuff that infuriates me. “I heard him laug
hing, telling his friend that Les took the selfish, easy way out. He said if she wasn’t such a coward, she would have toughed it out.”
“Toughed what out?”
“Life.”
“You don’t think she took the easy way out.” She doesn’t say it like it’s a question. She says it like she’s truly trying to understand me. That’s all I’ve wanted from her all week. I just want her to understand me. To believe me and not everyone else.
And no. I don’t think she took the easy way out. I don’t think that at all.
I reach across the table and pull her hand between both of mine. “Les was the bravest fucking person I’ve ever known,” I say. “It takes a lot of guts to do what she did. To just end it, not knowing what’s next? Not knowing if there’s anything next? It’s easier to go on living a life without any life left in it than it is to just say ‘fuck it’ and leave. She was one of the few that just said, ‘fuck it.’ And I’ll commend her every day I’m still alive, too scared to do the same thing.”
I look at her after I’m finished speaking and her eyes are wide. Her hand is shaking, so I clasp my hands around hers. We look at each other for several seconds and I can tell she has no idea what to say to me. I attempt to lighten the mood and change the subject. She said that was the last question, then we get dessert.
I lean forward and kiss the top of her head, then walk into the kitchen. “You want brownies or cookies?” I watch her from the kitchen as I grab the desserts and she’s staring at me, wide-eyed.
I freaked her out.
I just completely freaked her out.
I walk back to where she’s seated and I kneel down in front of her. “Hey. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I tell her, taking her face in my hands. “I’m not suicidal if that’s what’s freaking you out. I’m not fucked up in the head. I’m not deranged. I’m not suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m just a brother who loved his sister more than life itself, so I get a little intense when I think about her. And if I cope better by telling myself that what she did was noble, even though it wasn’t, then that’s all I’m doing. I’m just coping.” I allow her time to let my words sink in, then finish my explanation. “I fucking loved that girl, Sky. I need to believe that what she did was the only answer she had left, because if I don’t, then I’ll never forgive myself for not helping her find a different one.” I press my forehead to hers, looking her firmly in the eyes. “Okay?”
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