“And!” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “When you turned me down for the Sadie Hawkins dance in eighth grade.”
His eyes are glimmering with humor. “That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“No.” My voice gets smaller but I force myself to hold his gaze. “The time you pretended I didn’t exist for ten years.” I swallow. “I hated you then.”
He goes still, watching me carefully for a long, suspended moment. “You always existed for me, little bird.”
The endearment is a shock to my system. He hasn’t called me that for years, not since we were kids. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it slips from his mouth.
I try to duck my head so he won’t see the emotion swirling in my eyes, but his hand finds my chin and he tilts my head up, refusing to let me escape.
“Every damn day,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine. “Since you were no more than five years old, that day I climbed over the fence from my yard into yours and saw you sitting on the grass, perfectly still, crying your eyes out over those damn turtle doves… Every second of every day since that moment, you’ve existed for me.”
“Then why…” I trail off.
His fingers stroke the tender spot where my jawline and ear connect. “Why what?”
“You wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t even look at me. And then you disappeared.” I bite the inside of my cheek so I won’t cry. “I needed you, and you disappeared.”
His eyes get soft and a heartbreaking look drifts across his face — full of longing and regret and sadness. “I had to leave. The things my father wanted for me — a Harvard law degree, a cushy job in the DA’s office. … I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t become him. That life I watched him live, full of hatred and greed and self-obsession — it was never what I wanted for myself.” He pauses. “The only thing I ever really wanted was off limits.”
My breath catches in my throat. “And what was that?”
Me. Me. Me. I repeat it over and over, like a prayer to the heavens. Please, say it was me.
He doesn’t answer right away. After a minute, I realize he’s not going to at all.
His thumb moves to stroke the fragile place beneath my eye, where bruises stain the skin black and blue. “I wish I could erase this,” he says softly.
“Why?” I ask, only slightly offended. “Is it grossing you out?”
He stills in surprise, then lifts his eyes to mine. “No, it’s not grossing me out.” He pauses and I know he’s weighing his words, deciding how much of himself he wants to reveal. When he finally speaks, his words are halting. “You’re beautiful. Always. In a ratty t-shirt with messy hair or in those goddamn six inch stiletto heels with a gorgeous dress.”
Beautiful.
Nate thinks I’m beautiful.
His mouth touches the tip of my nose in a fleeting kiss so tender, it makes me want to cry. When his lips move to the aching spot above my eyebrow, then over to my bruised temple, depositing tiny kisses in their wake, I have to fight the tears building behind my eyes.
“I want to erase it because it’s a reminder of the man who hurt you. I don’t want his mark on your skin. Every time I see it, I’m reminded that I failed to keep you safe. Failed to protect you when you needed me most.” His jaw clenches. “And every time you look in the mirror, you’re reminded of the worst day of your life.”
The tears I was fighting win the battle — they gloss over my eyes as I lay my hands on his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm.
“You didn’t fail me,” I whisper to his mouth, because I can’t look into his eyes — if I do, my tears will spill over.
“I did. If you’d trusted me when I told you he was dangerous, you wouldn’t have gone with him that night.”
“Exactly.” I shake my head. “That’s not your fault, it’s mine.”