It’s mostly true. It’s not that I think I’m in any kind of danger. But I’ve never been alone in a room with a bed with a boy—with a man—that I liked before.
He strokes a lock of hair away from my forehead. “You sure? Because I can take you back home.”
“No!” My arms tighten at his waist. “God, no.”
He kisses me softly. Then he pulls away. “Then I’d better get the stove going, or we’ll freeze.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him start the fire. I’ve never had the chance to do anything very outdoorsy before—I never camped or went hiking as a kid—so I wouldn’t know how to get a fire going if my life depended on it. It’s kind of sexy, watching him crouched there with his sleeves rolled up, building a perfect little nest of paper and wood to catch the flame. Usually he doesn’t strike me as particularly rugged, but out here, in the chill mountain air, I can see his survivalist roots.
While the cabin’s warming he shows me everything he’s brought. Plates of fruit and cheese; pecans and strawberries and figs; a tray of chocolates. Delicate tartlets filled with mascarpone and apricot. I rest against the pillows on the bed and he sits a few inches away, a platter of food between us.
“This is amazing.” I look around the little space, marveling at how cozy and warm it feels now that the woodstove is going. “Let’s run away and live up here. No one will ever bother us again. We’ll live off the land.”
He grins. “As easy as that, huh?”
“Yup.” I pop a truffle in my mouth. “We’ll forage for food and chop wood for the stove.”
“Hm. There’s not a lot of chocolate or brie that grows in this region,” he says. “We’ll have to make do with tree bark and moss.”
“Delicious,” I proclaim. “And we’ll tame the squirrels to come be our pets.”
“They’ll eat all our tree bark and moss!” he says.
“And we’ll go without shoes or clothes. Just . . . wander naked through the woods.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” he says. We both laugh. My nerves are starting to evaporate.
“Sometimes I wish we could,” I say softly. “Just . . . pack up and leave. Start a new life somewhere. I mean . . . things are getting better with my mom. But I feel like I’ve been trapped here for so long. It’d almost be a relief to get a fresh start, without all the baggage.”
He nods. “I know. I think about it, too.”
I picture it. Maybe we couldn’t go off the grid and hide in the woods, but we could go someplace and blend into the crowd—New York or Chicago or L.A. Get our own little apartment, with a record player and a coffeepot and a cat. Sprawl on the floor reading novels; get under-the-table jobs washing dishes or fixing leaky faucets. Go on a few auditions, maybe.
And we’d finally be alone. We’d finally be together, without anyone judging us.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asks. He’s watching me, his eyes almost blazingly bright.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just daydreaming.” I look down, suddenly unable to meet the intensity of his gaze. “I can’t leave. Not really. Not while my mom needs me.”
“I know.” His voice is wistful.
“But . . . but this is amazing,” I say quickly. “Being here, with you.”
He shifts the plate out of the way, leans toward me. The kiss is soft and slow. A kiss that has all the time in the world.
“Elyse,” he murmurs. “I love you.”
My heart thumps against my sternum. “Aiden . . .”
“You’re the only future I can picture. The only thing I can think about.” He touches my chin.
I close my eyes. “I love you too.”
We kiss again. Less soft, less slow. A kiss that’s breathless with longing. His hands stroke my hair, my shoulders. I toy with the buttons on his shirt; I start to undo them, one at a time, until I can see the flat plane of his stomach, hard and muscular. His skin is so warm, so soft. His lips brush my earlobe and I moan, tilting my head back.
“I should go upstairs. It’s getting late,” he says.
I lean back against the pillows and pull him toward me.
“Stay,” I whisper.
He searches my face. I put my hand on his chest, feel his heartbeat warm and strong.
“Stay,” I repeat.
And then we’re kissing again, our bodies melting against each other, our clothes coming away piece by piece. My thoughts and fears dissolve. I’m nothing but sensation, shivering and arching.
Outside, the rain picks up again.
TWENTY-NINE
Gabe
Monday morning I break my own rule. I make my way to Catherine’s locker, hoping to see her before the first bell, even though we’re still trying to keep this on the down-low.
But every second she’s out of my sight, I’m thinking of ways to get to her. I’m wondering where she is, and what she’s doing, and where we could go to be alone.
She’s there, hanging her jacket in her locker. It’s almost bare—no pictures, no magazine clippings, no magnetic mirror stuck inside the door. Just a neat stack of books. I sidle up beside her, smiling. “Hey! What’s . . .”
I don’t get a chance to finish the sentence. She slams the locker door and turns on her heel, walking quickly away.
For a second I’m stunned. I just stare at her retreating form. Then I hurry after her.
“Cat? What’s going on?”
She walks faster, trying to ignore me. I reach out and grab her elbow, spinning her around to face me.
Her eyes flash wildly. For a moment I think she looks scared. But then I realize she’s furious.
“How could you do this to me?” Her whole body is trembling. “How could you . . . with her?”
“What?” I glance around, realizing we’re dead center in the hallway. People are staring. “Can we . . . go somewhere more private?”
She gives a nasty laugh. “So you can tell me more lies? So you can talk me into trusting you? I don’t think so.”
“Cat—” I start, but she doesn’t let me finish.
“That’s not my name!” She pounds on her thighs in frustration. I take a half step back. I’ve never seen her so upset.
“Catherine,” I try again. “I’m sorry, I want . . . I want to make this right, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She caught you. On tape. It must have been before we found the camera.” She laughs again, a strangled bark. “Maybe the same day, for all I know.”
“Who caught me?” But dread mounts in my gut, a twisting, writhing thing. I know, before she even says it.
“Who do you think?” She pulls out her phone and types something in. Then she turns it around to show it to me.
The picture quality is grainy, but right away I can see that it’s my bedroom. There’s the mural Irene painted on my wall—an Aztec warrior popping an ollie on his skateboard. There’s my faded blue bedspread. My pillow, my stack of comics by the lamp.
And there, on the bed, is a girl. Or the back of a girl. The naked back of a girl. Long dark hair swings around delicate-looking shoulder blades. Her spine arches with pleasure. A guy sits on the other side of her—you can’t see his face, but you can make out his dark curly hair as he kisses her neck, as he runs his hands down her sides.
Then my voice comes from the speaker. “Catherine . . .”
Everything in my body goes still. My muscles, my bones turn to stone. My lungs freeze mid-breath. I’m lost in a nightmare. I know whose shoulders those are. I’ve seen them dozens of times.
“It’s Sasha,” I say.
She snaps the phone away. “Yeah, Gabe, I know who it is. What I don’t get is what kind of fucked-up game you’re playing with her. With me.”
“But I don’t understand.” I stare down at her. “I never . . . did that. In my room, with her. The only time anything close to that happened was the time she broke in, and we didn’t . . . I didn’t touch her.” I frown. “Plus her hair was blond then. This has to be recent, because she dyed it.”
Catherine gives an almost hysterical laugh. “You’re thinking about her hair?”
“No, but the point is, I didn’t do this. This isn’t me.” My mind can’t seem to process the image. I know it’s not me. But it’s my voice, my room, my hair. For a single wheeling moment I wonder if I actually did do this and I’ve somehow forgotten—or if Sasha drugged me. Or even hypnotized me. But that’s nuts.
Right?