“No. We’re not.”
My brain feels fuzzy, like there’s static electricity when he pulls back to look at me. It’s not a normal moment of prolonged eye contact. He’s really looking at me. Like he’s found my soul.
If this is a dream, it sure as hell feels more real than any other moment of my life. Every brush of his thumb against my skin. His soft, searching gaze, catching in the moonlight. The way he slides his warm hand into my hair, massaging the nape of my neck, lighting a spark inside that’s been dormant, shoved down by the order of my mind.
My entire world is off kilter. It feels like I have no control over anything. Usually, just the thought of losing control is enough to send me into a spiral. Yet, in this moment, I feel a strange, weightless peace. It’s as though all my stress washed away with the rain. And Renner’s embrace.
Now that the spark is lit, I’m not sure even dousing it in this downpour would put it out. So I lean in and catch his lips with mine, finishing that kiss.
How did I waste the last four years not kissing Renner?
Hindsight is a serious bitch, because he kisses with his entire damn body. Kassie always told me he was a good kisser, but she vastly undersold his skill. Our kiss at the engagement party has nothing on this one. This is a mind-altering, time-bending, unicorn-glitter-magic-level kiss that threatens to change my entire worldview from here on out.
Despite being drenched in cold rain, our bodies are scorching, pressed tight. In this moment, there’s nothing that could pull us apart. Our rain-soaked lips slide against each other in short bursts, breath colliding. As his tongue slides a little deeper against mine, my hands skim up and down the plane of his back and over his shoulders, grasping at the wet fabric of his shirt.
His lips are so soft, coaxing my mouth open with hungry intensity. We fall into a rhythm, tilting, sighing into each other until I’m gasping for breath. One of his hands is tangled in my hair while the other fans across my waist, pulling me closer.
“Char,” he mumbles in between kisses.
“Mm-hmm?” I study his face for what feels like the first time.
“This is the best day of my life.” He says it with such conviction, I nearly melt into him. “I know that sounds weird because I don’t know if any of this is even real, but I—”
“It’s the best day of my life too,” I cut in. And I mean it. For the first time, I don’t know that I’d choose to go back to seventeen if given the chance. I want to hold on to this moment for a little while longer, if I can.
He gives me that signature, wistful Renner smile. I take a mental photo, logging this moment in my mind.
The rain lets up and I can finally see that the alley leads to a square of restaurants and patios. The shops boast overflowing flowerpots and vines that snake from the windows, down the sides of the buildings. It reminds me of a woodland fairy tale. It has a European vibe—at least, based on the movies.
There’s a big, old-fashioned clock in the middle of the square. Music from the nearby pub blares through the patio speaker. It’s a familiar tune.
The Dirty Dancing song. The same song we danced to at prom.
We stop in our tracks. Renner smiles and extends his hand, pulling me into the center of the bustling square. “Come here. Dance with me.”
“We’re in public,” I whisper as he places his hands around my waist, swaying to the music as a mom with a stroller angrily swerves to avoid us. “And no one else is dancing.”
“I hate to break it to you, but look at the way we’re dressed. I think we’re past caring what anyone else thinks,” he says, dipping me back dramatically.
“I still kind of care,” I admit, though I let him keep spinning me around.
“I know you do. You always have.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask, hypnotized by his smile.
He shrugs. “No. But you shouldn’t let it stop you from living in the moment. Now come on, do the jump.”
“What jump?”
“The Dirty Dancing jump.” He bends his knees, ever so slightly, impaired by his impossibly tight pants.
I look around at all the people around us, rushing to get to their destinations before the rain starts again. A few curious folks have stopped to take in the show, whispering among themselves. I hear one of them say, “They must be new buskers.”
“Come on. You can trust me,” Renner says, holding his arms out, steady.
Trust. That’s the one thing I’ve never had with Renner. But after the past few days, I think he might be the person I trust most.
So I do it. I run into him and he seamlessly lifts me above his head. I hold my arms out and it feels like I’m flying, weightless, filled with air. From up here, I feel powerful, strong, like I can do anything.
He holds me for a moment before his arms start to shake. “Um, Char?”
“Yeah?”
“I—I think my pants just split down the front.”
I laugh and crane my neck to see for myself, and my body shifts more dramatically than I meant it to, straight out of Renner’s arms.
Within a blink, I’m hurtling face forward into the concrete.
TWENTY-SEVEN
There’s a familiar dull ache behind my eyes. Something hard jams into my forehead, and my breath hitches, as if a boa constrictor has coiled itself around my chest.
My eyes snap open, body rigid and on high alert. I’m disoriented, like when you’re blindfolded in those pin-the-tail games and someone spins you around and around.
That’s how I feel as I take in a few facts:
1) I’m lying facedown.
2) My nose is squashed into a dusty wood plank floor. The gymnasium floor.
3) We’re no longer in a random alley in Fairfax. I am no longer in Renner’s arms.
How did we end up here? Did I have a concussion after Renner dropped me?
I rake my hand through my hair, expecting my fingers to snag on knotted, rain-drenched strands. But it’s dry and otherwise smooth.
Speaking of Renner . . . I can smell his clean, lemony scent all around me, as though I’ve bathed in it. And that’s when a low groan vibrates against my chest.
Renner’s chin pokes my chest wall, right between my boobs.
“Yup. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow,” he croaks.
I’m unable to respond, mostly because I’m disoriented. Every muscle and joint in my body aches. I make a mental note to schedule a chiropractor appointment. That seems like an adult thing to do.
Renner gently sets his hands on either side of my waist and rolls me off him. And that’s when I get a good look at his face.
He’s clean shaven.
Boyishly familiar.
Gone are that broad jawline, the facial hair, the added crinkle lines around his eyes.
I scan the gym, my eye catching a glimpse of the tacky cardboard seaweed affixed to the wall.
We’re seventeen again.
We’re back.
And so are the blisters on my feet.
I feel like I’ve fallen from a balcony twenty stories up. Everything hurts.
I gather the strength to pull myself into a seated position, and Renner snaps his fingers in my face abruptly. “Char? Are you hurt? You look like total shit.”
His words are like an ice bath. It’s like being cast into darkness after relishing in the sunlight. Gone are the softness and affection in his eyes.
I shake my head. Before what? The future? The Renner staring at me like I’m a freak of nature is not the Renner who confessed his feelings for me. He’s not the Renner I made out with in the rain. Which means . . . it wasn’t based in any sort of reality, alternate or otherwise. Because if it were an alternate reality, surely he experienced it too?
Could it have been a dream? Perhaps.
But that doesn’t compute. Usually, after a vivid dream, the thrashing heartbeat fades once you regain consciousness. But my heartbeat shows no signs of slowing.
“Hello?” Renner waves his hand annoyingly close to my face.