Off-Limits Box Set

by Ella James

  “Did you finish this year? Are you a sophomore now?”

  “Of course.” He folds his arms in front of his chest.

  “Why didn’t you call? I sent these letters, and they all came back…”

  “Maybe you had the wrong address.” But I can hear it in his voice: the rush. As if he had the words already earmarked and he forced them out, quick as he could.

  “You didn’t call.” The words are breathy, just the faintest protest as my heart hammers and sweat rolls down my scalp.

  The look Dash gives me hits me like an anvil. It’s skeptical, as if to say why would I call you?

  For a too-long heartbeat, I can’t get my breath. I hope the stinging in my eyes will stop before it turns to tears. I hope that in this last year, Dash forgot me as much as it seems like he did, so he won’t see that as the seconds tick by, I feel more and more like I’m going to throw up the Blue Moon churning in my stomach.

  Why is he acting this way? Like he doesn’t know me. Like he doesn’t care at all.

  I can see him read my mind: the way his eyes widen fractionally before his whole face locks down, and I get the apathetic look again. The one he used to use on his parents, the pervy gardener who gawked at Alexia and I in our swimsuits, a guy at our school who picked on Hollis Smith.

  He saw the dismay on my face just now, and his reaction—the one he wants to give me, anyway—is fuck you.

  I stare into his eyes for just a moment longer. Then I release the breath I’ve been holding. “You know, never mind, Dash. Just forget this.”

  I whirl toward the bedroom door with tears falling. “I’ve got a date,” I mutter as I push out it.

  Four

  Amelia

  As soon as I’m out of Dash’s sight, I can’t keep my frantic body still. The hallway is crowded, but I push my way past shoulders and elbows, bumping into a guy who curses as he spills his drink.

  I pause briefly in the doorway of the sunroom, noting the absence of live music about the time Joe Cotton—the Gin Rangers’ front-man—steps in from the poolside, and the crowd inside the sunroom surges toward him.

  There’s a door to my left, partially hidden by a massive fern. I try the handle and fling myself out onto the side lawn, where the beetles’ high-pitched hum is drowned out by the throbbing of my heart.

  I need to calm down—cry or scream, so I can clear my head. Ultimately, I’m going to need to find my friend for a ride home, but right now my cheeks are burning and my eyes are leaking, so I dart into the shadows of the pine forest that rushes up against the neat, green grass, and then I start to jog.

  I jog almost every morning, even when it’s hotter than a frying pan and humid enough to make my hair frizzy. In a summer where Manda is always glaring at me from behind a magazine, and Dad seems more withdrawn than ever, the routine and repetition of my running is a bright spot. After a few bouncing strides, I feel more in control. I set off in earnest, cutting toward the stately, red-brick drive that halves the lawn.

  Dogwoods line the driveway. Beneath one, I kick my sandals off. Running barefoot kind of hurts my feet, but I like it. Gives my mind a new focus. Overhead, stars wobble in the sky between treetops.

  I focus on my breathing.

  Eee-eee-ooo, Eee-eee-ooo, Eee-eee-ooo…

  Thoughts rise up like bubbles in a cauldron.

  He’s here!

  Who’s his girl? Is he with someone local?

  Doesn’t matter!

  He doesn’t give a shit about you, Amelia. Clearly!

  My brain erupts in clashing thoughts: a mess of fears and wants, worries and memories.

  None of your feelings matter! He’s not yours! Grow up!

  I know I need to. I’ll be sixteen in a few weeks. I’ve got to stop aching for things that I can’t have. Like Mom.

  I let myself cry more as I jog, remembering prom this year. I wore an aqua blue gown and went with Leonard Croix, a junior with spiky hair and vaguely Dash-like features. All he talked about was online gaming, and at the end of the night, he tried to grope my boobs. I came home and wanted to tell someone, but even awful Manda was asleep. Not that I would have told her anyway.

  I slow my pace a little, and notice a bleary streak of white-gray over to my right: a trail of pebbles cut into the trees.

  It’s so weird, so random, I can’t resist—even though the path is shadow-swathed and I know the little pebbles will be hell on my feet.

  Running without shoes hurts my tender soles, but I adjust my stride so I can keep moving. The pebbles are pale, the path wide, so I’m not scared of getting lost; I know when I’m finished, I can simply turn around.

  The moon is big and bright, floating in the black sky soup above the swaying treetops, beaming down its long, thick arms of light so I can see the swatch of path ahead.

  One minute, my body is moving, my thoughts racing—and the next I’m on my belly, my knees lit up from skidding on the ground, my lungs stunned by the impact. For the first blink, I’m afraid I hit my head, because everything is blurry. Then I realize: I’m missing my glasses.

  Holy hell—where are my glasses?

  I run my hand over the pebbles, over the grass and leaves. I crawl forward, backward, sideways. I pull my phone out of my pocket, shining it around, but my vision is so terrible it doesn’t really help.

  I crawl so much I get turned around, and I can’t tell which way is back toward the house. Not without my glasses…

  I draw my legs up to my chest, balance the phone on my knees, and blink down at it. I can’t even see the screen. Can I make a call if I can’t see the screen?

  Tears well in my eyes again, and at that moment, I hear footfall. Heavy. Fast. I know it’s Dash from memory and instinct.

  I feel more than see him kneeling down beside me. “Am?” His hands come down on my shoulders. “What are you doing?” His voice is strong and clear, but I can feel his chest pumping, hear the ragged edge of his breaths.

  “I lost my glasses,” I say thickly.

  Dash pulls me up against him, and I smell whiskey and warm skin.

  “Hang on,” he says, as if he’s going to find them—but he doesn’t stop hugging me. With one big arm still locked around my back, he murmurs, “There…”

  Then he’s letting me go, sliding my glasses on my face.

  “They were this close?” I ask after I blink at his older-Dash face.

  He smiles softly. “Right beside you.”

  I can’t look at him. I look down at the ground.

  “I’m sorry, Ammy Dove.”

  “For what?”

  “You know what.” His voice is husky.

  “That you disappeared?”

  He just looks at me, his lips pressed flat, the corners downturned slightly. It’s the face people make when they have bad news.

  “Why? I don’t get it, Dash. Was college that awesome?”

  “No, Amelia.” Dash stands with a heavy sigh, wiping his palms on his pants before holding out a hand for me. “You want to walk?”

  I answer by taking his hand.

  There’s an air of gravitas about our quiet, moonlit walk. All around us, pines sway in a gentle, summer breeze. Dash leads me down the trail, our hands folded in sweet union that doesn’t go beyond our fingertips. I feel dizzy with the nearness of him. It’s as if no time has passed—or maybe a million years have glided by us.

  When we see white light spilling through the leafy trees ahead, I realize it’s the moon reflecting off the lake. Dash parts a few limbs, and we follow a grassy path down to the red clay shore. After a few steps toward the water, I let his hand go. It felt good to walk with him, but now we’re out here in the open, and I know if I stay too close, my heart will beat so wildly it will burst right out and flop at Dash’s feet.

  I cast my gaze around the tiny strip of beach. It’s shrouded by veils of moss, by green trees, leafy with summer, by boulders scattered to our right. Near the boulders, the shore juts out into a little point, water lapping quietly around
it. I can’t even hear noise from the lake house, despite knowing that we must still be close. It feels like we’re in another world.

  Finally, I let my gaze touch Dash. I find him looking down on me with serious eyes, a solemn mouth. And in that moment, I don’t want to be here. Whatever he’s going to tell me…

  I sit down on a nearby boulder, pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Dash paces in front of me, his thick arms folded.

  I can feel the pent-up words inside him fighting to get out. And I can see he won’t let them. It’s in the way he moves, so taut and tense. And then his shoulders slump and he pulls a flask out of his pocket. Sits down in the sand in front of me and takes a long swig.

  “You have your own flask.” My words sound dry and disapproving.

  I wait for Dash to answer, but instead he draws his knees up like I have mine, but more loosely. He wraps his arms around them, showing me the well-honed muscles of his biceps and his forearm. He looks so much bigger. So much sturdier.

  I watch as he lifts a hand to his face, rubbing the scruff along his jaw. And I note his gaze: down on the ground.

  Finally, he looks up at me. “You would like it there.” His jaw is tight, his shoulders tighter. The words sound like a confession, which makes no sense at all.

  “It’s how you said you thought it would be. Especially the water. It’s… There’s nothing like it. The smell. The way the air feels. Like it’s passing over you. Moving around you. Like it’s never going to stop, it just goes by… It makes the city feel alive.” He lifts his head, but doesn’t look at me. Instead he keeps his gaze out on the water. “The snow is thick and dry. Like Colorado, but…I think colder. With a different kind of wind. I’m no writer, but it makes you want to be outside in it, and indoors by a fire too. I had a fireplace there. I drank coffee. Not black, but just with a little bit of cane sugar and milk. The way you said your dad told you your mom liked it. I had this red mug that I bought. In Boston. All our rooms where I lived—I lived with a bunch of other students— they were built around this common-room workshop. I didn’t like that, though. I don’t like working with anybody else around. Not most of the time. I put sheets up and I would work behind them, by this window. Outside it, there were these huge trees. I don’t know what kind, but I painted them. Painted a lot of cityscape, because that’s what I saw. The street vendors, the RIPTA—public transportation. The professors there are awesome. Hands down. Like your dad, but…more enthusiastic. Open. Helping students is their life. Not that Oliver isn’t awesome, but this was different. They’re…hands on. Sometimes too much.” I watch his big hand come up to his forehead, rubbing. Still, his eyes are on the water.

  “Everything you’d want there. It’s exactly like you said.”

  “I guess I see now why you didn’t call.” I mean the words to sound sarcastic, but they don’t. They’re understanding. Approving, even. Because I wanted this for him. I wanted it to be perfect for my perfect Dash.

  I can see him from the side, see the way his lips press together and his nostrils flare. That’s the only way I know he isn’t happy. Isn’t satisfied with magical Rhode Island.

  “I un-enrolled.”

  “What?”

  Dash is stone still.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  He brings a hand up to his eyes, as if he’s shielding them from sunlight. “I’m going to travel,” he says toward his palm.

  And I can feel it rolling off him: misery. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything. But I know I can’t stay on my dumb rock, watching him ache in front of me. Not when I could sit beside him on the sand.

  I know even before I’m there beside him that my arms cannot be stopped. They’re going around him. I slide down to my knees there in the sand and embrace him from the back, throwing my arms around his shoulders, leaning on him as I press my cheek against his neck.

  I can feel his body stiffen—“Am…”—before his back relaxes and he’s reaching back to touch my face.

  “Amelia—”

  “I miss you…”

  Then he’s lifting me over his shoulder. Then I’m in his lap, hugging his neck, and Dash’s arms are locked around me.

  Oh my God. My cheek is pressed against his throat, and I can smell him. He’s hugging me so hard, it almost hurts.

  I feel this little jerk… this shudder. I can feel his lungs expand, then freeze—as if he’s holding his breath.

  I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. He nuzzles my hair with his chin. Runs his warm hands down my arms. He hugs me tight once more, then pushes me away with wide eyes.

  “What?” The word is breathless.

  “No.” He tries to stand up, but I catch him by the elbow.

  “Dash— What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t let you touch me, Am! Can’t you tell I’m fucking drunk?”

  Tears sting in my eyes. “No.” They start to fall down my cheeks, and I feel so stupid. So, so stupid. Why do I love him like this? Why do I love him when he doesn’t feel the same way? I fold my arms around myself. “I didn’t know.” The words are quiet and shaky, turning Dash’s hard face soft.

  He moves toward me, catching me again and pulling me against him.

  “Am…” He rubs his lips against my hair, and I can feel him panting. As if he’s been running. It’s peculiar, even more so because it makes me feel so hot and restless. “Thanks for walking with me,” he says, husky, “but you’ve gotta go now.”

  My body thrums. Everything I’m sensing points to one conclusion, but my mind just can’t accept it. Too outrageous.

  I press myself against him, smiling up at him to let him know I want to be here. That’s when I feel something hard against my hip. I notice, as my mind does a slow somersault, that Dash’s eyes are heavy, molten.

  His hips seem to twitch, and I feel it clearly against me: his erection. “Am…” His hand rubs over my hair. “You’ve gotta go. I’m fucking drunk and I’ve been missing you for months. All I could think about up there was you.”

  The words are so shocking, at first I think I heard him wrong.

  “What?”

  “I know,” he says heavily. His warm fingers stroke my cheek. “But I can’t stop myself. You’re perfect.”

  Perfect?

  “Me?”

  “I wanted to call,” he says with those strange eyes. He seems sedated somehow, but also energized, as if the two of us are buzzing. “I wanted to, Amelia, but I couldn’t. It’s so wrong,” he groans.

  “What do you mean?” My heart is pounding so hard, I think I might be sick. “What do you mean?” I ask him, breathless.

  He frames my face with both his palms, and I notice that they’re damp. “I mean,” he says softly, “it’s wrong to want you like this.”

  Dash wants me.

  He wants me.

  Tears swim in my eyes. I feel my body start to tremble against his. I grab onto his arm, and Dash wraps me against his chest.

  For a long moment, we just stand there, holding onto each other. I feel him breathing. I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat. Something deep down low in me is pulsing.

  He wants me!

  “It’s not wrong.” I twine my arms around his neck, and am electrically aware of my breasts against his chest—of the flickering between my legs. “If you mean it… If you really…think that about me. I feel the same way,” I whisper.

  Bliss and terror wash through me. That this is even real. When Dash doesn’t reply, I look up to find his eyes squeezed shut. His hands, on my shoulders, feel like talons. “Please, Amelia.”

  “What?”

  His eyes open. He heaves a heavy breath. “You have to stop. I told you…I’ve been drinking.”

  “I’ve seen you drunk before.”

  Again, his eyes shut. “You don’t understand… You don’t even know what I’m saying.” The words sound tortured.

  My mind is a fog of unseen landscape. I can feel the terrain all around me, but as ever, I can’t see it. I look u
p at Dash, the heavy breathing, the glazed eyes, the stark face, and I realize: he wants me. Dash…he wants me physically. When he’s saying that he’s drunk…I think he’s implying that he can’t resist me. Suddenly, I’m giggling. I tuck my head against his chest and laugh and laugh.

  “Oh God…” One of my arms is wrapped around his side. Tremors rack my body. “You’re not lying?” I pant.

  He blinks. “No.”

  I’m shaking so hard now my teeth are almost chattering: pure adrenaline. “For real?”

  Dash’s eyes shut as his palm pushes my hair off my forehead. “I’m surprised you’re surprised,” he says softly. “I worried it was obvious a couple times before I left.”

  “Last summer?” I laugh. “It wasn’t. And…you never called…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I just don’t get it.”

  His eyes blink open. “You’re my little sister’s best friend, and I think about you all the time. If I had called, I would have begged you to come see me. You’re not even sixteen.” He runs a hand back through his hair, wobbling a little, and I think for the first time that he does seem pretty drunk. “Damnit, Am, there’s something wrong with me.”

  I shake my head. “I feel the same way—about you,” I whisper fervently. “I have forever.”

  “If I’d come home, I would have kept you on the roof with me all fucking night. Doing things like this…” He presses his lips against my temple. When he pulls away, his eyes are heavy-lidded. “I shouldn’t, but...”

  His lips possess my own, making my legs quiver as I try to kiss him back. I feel young and pale and insubstantial, so different from Dash with his searing heat and firm body. His tongue glides into my mouth. The air around us throbs as I cling to his neck and Dash’s hand strokes up my side.

  “Everything you say…” he breathes between kisses. “I like you too much. Being away…” His mouth is hard, demanding, hungry. “Being away and seeing you tonight. Fuck me, Ammy, I came hoping I might see you.”