Dying. I look away.
“I couldn’t stomach anything after that,” he explains. “I stopped writing, because I couldn’t talk about it, but I couldn’t talk about anything else, either. I couldn’t carry on like before, and I couldn’t face the reality of her being gone. I felt sick.” He finally looks over at me. “I needed you, but I just didn’t know how to talk to you anymore. Or anyone. I’d changed.”
“You can talk now.”
He smiles, easing me back to his lap. “Yeah. I’m not sure I could ever give you up again.”
I touch my forehead to his, not knowing what I would do without him. I hate that he stopped writing. I hate that he pretended to be Masen. But I’m so glad we’re here.
I just really hate that it was his sister’s death that brought him here.
“I understand why you stopped writing and why you came here to get away, but…” I look him in the eyes. “Why did you enroll at school? If it wasn’t for me, what was it for?”
He shakes his head, letting out a breath. “Nothing.”
“Misha.”
“Really, it was nothing,” he tells me, cutting me off. “I thought I had another reason to be here, someone who I used to know, but no. It was dumb, and I feel stupid. I shouldn’t have come.” And then he smiles, wrapping his arms around me. “But I’m not sorry I did.”
I cock my head, aggravated. He’s being cagey again.
“I love you,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”
And he looks so calm and happy, I don’t want to ruin it. I take in a deep breath and relax into him. “Can I have the scarf back?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you,” I say, my fingers tingling as my heartbeat picks up.
His fingers grip my waist. “It about fucking time.”
I breathe out a laugh, kissing him. He’s always gotta bust my chops.
“And I think it’s about time I met your mom,” he states.
“Ugh, do we have to?” I trail kisses over his cheek and down his neck, more interested in something else right now.
“You think she won’t like me?”
I sigh, looking back up at him. My mom is lovely, but she’s strict. Seeing me in love and giddy and everything, her first concern will be making sure I don’t blow off college to get married.
“Well, you are the grandson of a senator, I guess,” I tell him. “Can we lead with that?”
He snorts, shaking his head at me. I guess that’s a no.
“Okay, fine,” I snip. “But afterwards, I have a favor to ask.”
“Ask me now.”
“Eh,” I cage. “I’ll tell you in the truck. It’s kind of illegal.”
I pick up the small duffel and hear the clank of a few cans inside. Well, I guess it’s better than it was. I don’t want to alert my family when I take it downstairs, so I’ve wrapped the cans in some clothes, hoping to drown out the sound.
Tonight is my final little foray, and Misha is helping. Only this time, I have no guilt about it. We’re rebels with a reason.
Okay, a little reason, at least.
Checking myself in the mirror one last time, I grab the bag and hear the doorbell ring, smiling. He’s here.
Leaving my room, I lift the hem of my dress as I step down the stairs. My mom and sister are camped out in the living room, huddled around a bowl of popcorn and scary movies tonight, but really, they’re just waiting to see Misha again.
When I brought him home last week, my mom immediately liked him. A lot. Especially with our history. She knows how much Misha means to me, and to finally meet him was incredible.
My sister, I think, was just aggravated. Oh, look. He didn’t ditch me. He likes me. He loves me. And he’s hot.
But she’s been on my case less the last week, and I’ve tried to make an effort with her. After all, my relationship with my sister is as much my fault as it is hers. She may have been a brat as a kid, hating that she always had to hold my hand, so I wasn’t alone, but as we grew up, I was the one who pulled away. I’m trying to watch my mouth now and not build a wall every time she enters my space. It’ll take some time, but I think we’ll get there.
She even did my hair for me tonight.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, seeing my mom already heading through the foyer. I set the bag down and stand back up just as she opens the door.
Misha stands there, tall and dressed in a black suit, white shirt, with a black tie. Everything fits him perfectly, and he even has his tie tightened. His hair is styled, and the only thing that looks the same is the silver lip ring. His collar even covers the bit of ink that trails up his neck.
I love how he normally looks and dresses, but there’s something about him in a suit. He looks so grown up. And really hot.
And I appreciate the effort he puts forth to impress my mom. When I brought him home the first time, he grabbed a hoodie out of the truck and put it on before we entered the house, pulling down the sleeves to cover up his ink. He was worried my mom would judge him before she knew him.
But that changed when she showed him the little Kanji tattoo she had on her shoulder from college. Back when Kanji was the rage. He relaxed a little.
His eyes lock with mine and then fall down my dress, a sleeveless, red, floor-length gown with a high neck and jeweled and pearled spaghetti straps across my bare back. My sister did my make-up, too, and my mom played music and made chocolate-covered strawberries while we all had fun getting me ready. Originally the plan was to go with Lyla and the girls to the salon, but today was perfect. I’m glad I spent it with my family.
I hold up my hands, posing and teasing, “So do I look cute?”
He steps in and walks up to me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “That’s not the word I would use,” he whispers.
“You both look great,” my mom chimes in.
“You don’t match,” my sister retorts, and I look up to see her entering the foyer.
She’s dressed in her skimpy sleep shorts, probably for Misha’s benefit, and I fantasize about putting vinegar in her mouthwash.
Match? Like his tie and my dress?
But Misha looks at her and places his hand on his heart, feigning sincerity. “We match in here.”
I snort, breaking into quiet laughter.
My sister rolls her eyes, and my mom shakes her head, smiling.
“Alright, let’s go,” I say.
I lean down to take the bag, which my mom thinks contains a change of clothes for the parties we’re not going to later.
But she shouts, “Pictures!” And I stop.
Letting out a small sigh, I step down the last stair, and he turns me around, putting my back to his chest.
“Traditional cheesy prom pose,” he explains.
“Oh, well, then. If we must.”
My sister folds her arms over her chest, looking discontented as she watches my mom snap shots of us. Of course, I want pictures. I’m not a party pooper. But I have that first picture of us at the scavenger hunt, and I feel like Misha’s just doing me a favor, coming along with the boys and me. I don’t want to put him on the spot.
But surprisingly, he seems to enjoy this. Turning me around, he wraps his arms around me and looks into my eyes, my mom taking a couple of quick pics.
My heart is already thumping hard, and I stare at his mouth, feeling my body warm up. I’d really just rather be alone with him tonight.
“Ugh, get a room,” Carson whines and turns around, heading back into the living room.
I continue to stare at Misha.
“Ryen, be home by two,” Mom says.
“It’s prom,” I point out. “It’s kind of an all-night thing.”
“Two,” she repeats, looking between us, her warning clear.
But I argue anyway. “Seven.”
“Three.”
“Three, and Misha can come back for breakfast in the morning,” I press.
She nods easily. “Fine. But beignets. Not jalapeno bagels.”
“I know.”
I take the bag gingerly, careful not to make the cans bang into each other, and whisper to Misha as I head past him, “Hopefully you’ll be here extra early, because I’m not going to let you leave.”