But I don’t.
She nods. “Probably.”
Without a word I pull her as close as I can and settle my mouth on hers once more. This time, though, I’m not gentle or slow. I’m a little more aggressive, kissing her harder, tilting my head so I can take the kiss deeper. She doesn’t really respond, her moves so tentative, so inexperienced, that when I finally break away from her lips, I whisper, “Kiss me back.”
She blinks up at me, her lips swollen and damp from mine, and I move toward her, ready to make another attempt, just before she leaps to her feet.
“I’m sorry. I just—I can’t,” she mumbles, her purse dangling from her fingers before she turns and leaves, running down the stairs and toward the exit door that leads to the back parking lot.
I sit in stunned silence, shocked that she bailed on me in the middle of the movie theater, before I spring into action. What the hell just happened? Why did she leave? I pushed too hard. I demanded too much. This is what I get, what I deserve.
I shouldn’t follow her outside. I should do Katie a favor and run in the other direction. I won’t help her. I’ll only hurt her.
Instead of doing what I should, I follow her, hoping like hell she hasn’t got away. Kissing her, pushing her like I just did, was a mistake. I wasn’t fucking thinking.
That’s the theme in regards to Katie, though. I flat-out don’t think. I feel. I want. I hurt.
I need.
My legs are shaky as I run out into the dark, cool night, the theater door slamming with a heavy thud behind me, the sound jarring in the otherwise quiet. I come to a stop on the sidewalk that fringes the parking lot and glance around, my breaths fast, as I try and gather my bearings.
Like a coward I ran. Fear made me do it. Fear makes me do everything. It’s the driving force in my life and God, I hate it so much. Why can’t I stand up for myself? Why do I always get so scared?
At first, I liked the way he kissed me. Soft and sweet, his warm, firm lips on mine churning up all sorts of unfamiliar, yearning sensations that seemed to radiate throughout my body. I wanted to melt; I wanted to grab hold of him and cling tight. Savor the feeling of his arms wrapped around me.
But then he became bolder, his mouth more insistent, his hands seemingly everywhere, though truly, he was always respectful. Always a gentleman. When he demanded I kiss him back, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t . . .
I didn’t know what to do. I got scared.
And I ran.
Glancing around, I look for any sign of life, but no one’s out here. It’s cold and cloudy, the sky dark and threatening, and the ground is damp, like it’s already rained. I parked far away and I’m a little spooked being out here alone, but I tell myself to get over it. It’s all my fault anyway. If I were a normal person, I would have enjoyed the movie with my date and let him walk me to my car afterward. I would have enjoyed even more the way he kissed me—in the most nonthreatening way possible, I might add—and agreed to another date if he asked me.
But he won’t ask me, ever again. I’ve ruined it. I ran out on him like a complete freak, so why would he go after me? He won’t. I don’t care how nice he is, how he says all the right things and looks at me like he cares and kisses me like he’s interested; once he finds out the truth . . .
He’ll leave.
Stiffening my spine, I head out into the parking lot, my steps hurried as I walk toward my car. Raindrops fall on my cheeks and I bend my head down, quickening my pace when it starts to steadily drizzle. I only have on a sweater since I left my coat in my car and the air is freezing, made worse by the rain.
Gloomy and cold, much like my mood.
“Katherine!”
I recognize his voice, hear him call my name—my full name—and I slow my steps and glance over my shoulder to see Ethan coming toward me. I contemplate running the rest of the way to my car, I’m ashamed to admit, but I remain rooted where I stand, waiting for him. The rain starts falling in earnest and I blink against the drops hitting my face, wishing I could wipe my eyes but knowing that will smear my mascara.
Not that it matters. It’s probably all smeared anyway.
“Come back inside,” he says as he draws closer.
I shake my head. “I just want to go home.”
“Let me take you home.”
“No.” He stops just in front of me and for one fleeting moment, I want him to grab hold of me and pull me into his arms. Never let me go. “I should—I’d rather be alone. I’m sorry.” Why did I apologize? That was one thing I had to work on years ago, with one of my many therapists. I apologized for everything. I had to realize that not everything is my fault.