Something he wants to forget.
He brushes his hair out of his eyes and crosses the room to me, walking in a mostly straight line. I back up to let him get through the door, but he puts his hand on my bare arm and pulls me into the corner. His eyes close momentarily as the current of energy passes through us; then he leans toward me until his nose is almost touching mine, his breath surprisingly sweet considering the nasty stuff I watched him drink. I want to be casual about this—it’s a party, after all, drinking happens, and yeah, there were girls in that room fawning all over him, but he’s fire hot, and he’s smart and funny and well-spoken. And he’s not my boyfriend, I remind myself. We’ve never actually been out on a date. We’re not together.
Still, his touch sends a flock of rabid butterflies careening around my stomach.
“I was just thinking about you,” he says, his voice rough, his pupils so big they make his eyes look black. “Dream girl.”
My face is getting hot, both from what he’s saying and what he’s feeling right now. He wants to kiss me. He wants to feel my lips again, so soft, so perfect to him—he wants to carry me out of this stupid noisy house to somewhere where he can kiss me.
Whoa. I can’t breathe properly. He leans in. “Christian, stop,” I whisper the moment before his mouth touches mine.
He pulls away, breathing heavily. I try to retreat a little, put some space between us, but I run into the wall. He takes a step forward, closing the distance, and I put my hand on the center of his chest to keep him back, for which I get another electric zap, like fireworks going off against a dark sky.
“Let’s go outside,” I suggest breathlessly.
“Lead the way,” he says, and walks behind me, his hand on the small of my back as I head toward the door, burning through the fabric of my dress. We’re about halfway there when we literally bump into Thomas, who I realize I simply walked away from with no explanation the minute I heard Christian’s name.
“I was looking for you,” Thomas says. He looks at Christian and, more importantly, at Christian’s hand, which has moved down to my hip. “Who is—”
“Hey, you’re Doubting Thomas!” Christian says, suddenly jovial.
Thomas looks over at me, startled. “Is that what you call me? Doubting Thomas?”
“It’s affectionate, really,” Christian says, and as Thomas looks, well, doubtful, and hurt, Christian claps him on the shoulder and moves us past him. “You have a nice night.”
Something tells me that Thomas isn’t going to ask me out again.
I’m relieved for the cool air that greets us when we make it outside. There’s a bench on the porch, and I steer Christian over to it. He sits, then abruptly puts his face in his hands. Groans.
“I’m drunk,” he says, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened to you?” I sit down next to him, reach to put my hand on his shoulder, but he sits up.
“Don’t touch me, okay? I don’t think I can handle it like this.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
He sighs, runs his palms over his hair. “You know how you said Angela could make herself have the vision by walking in that thing at the church? Well, I did it. I went there.”
“I went there, too,” I gasp. “We must have just missed each other.”
“Did you have the vision?”
“Yes. I mean no, not at the church. But later, I had it.” I swallow. “I saw you with the sword.”
“Fighting?” he asks.
“Fighting two people.”
He nods grimly. “I think we’re having the same vision. Did you see who I was fighting?”
“It was too dark. I couldn’t tell.”
We take a minute to process this, which is hard with the Bee Gees blaring out at us, “Somebody help me, somebody help me, yeah.”
“That’s not all,” Christian says. “I saw you.”