If There's No Tomorrow

And maybe he didn’t mean he loved me in that beautiful, endless way I read about in the books littering my room. The kind of love that was like a chain connecting two souls, an unbreakable bond that prevailed over the worst kind of circumstances, the most horrific decisions. He obviously thought he did, but people believed and felt all kinds of crazy things in the face of loss, but those feelings drifted away and lessened once life returned to normal and the pain of loss faded.

But right now, I didn’t want to acknowledge any of that or what led us to this point where things were no longer the same between us. I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to explore the heat building low in my stomach, the breathlessness in my chest that had nothing to do with my lungs or ribs.

Maybe it was going back to school today. Or it was the unexpected talk with Dr. Perry and knowing that he knew. It could’ve been the confrontation with Abbi and facing the fact that out of everyone, she knew I left that party...that party sober enough to...to fucking know better. It could’ve been the talk with Mom.

Maybe it was because Sebastian had said he loved me.

It was probably all those things rolled into one wrecking ball of a mess, but couldn’t I...couldn’t I just, I don’t know, pretend for a little bit? Play out the fantasy in my head? My pulse was all over the place as my gaze tracked over the sharp angle of his cheekbones, down to the scar in his upper lip.

I lifted my hand but stopped inches from touching him.

A small smile curled the corners of his lips up. “You can touch me if you want. You don’t even have to ask.”

I wanted to touch him, so very badly, but I hesitated. Touching him wasn’t pretending, and how would I come back from that?

His chest rose with a deep breath. “I would love for you to touch me.”

My breath caught.

Tentatively, I splayed my fingers across his cheek. A jolt of exhilaration rushed me when I felt the tremor that rocked his strong body. His jaw was almost smooth under my palm with just the hint of stubble. I slid my hand down, sliding my thumb along his lower lip. His sharp intake of breath elicited a shudder. He closed his eyes when I followed the curve of his upper lip, feeling the indent of his scar.

All these years, and I’d never touched him like this. Ever. I was lost a little in the moment, in the right now, as I coasted my hand down his throat. My fingers brushed over his pulse and I could feel it beating as wildly as mine.

I kept going.

Flattening my hand over his chest. He made this sound, this low gravelly groan that was part growl, and it was like taking a match to gasoline. A fire started. Emboldened, I went lower, following the taut ripples and planes. His muscles were hard, clearly defined like I always knew they were, like I’d always seen and only ever accidentally touched briefly.

But this wasn’t brief.

I took my sweet time, tracing just a finger over his abs and then two fingers, mapping them out, committing them to memory.

I kept going.

My fingers drifted around his navel and lower, reaching the band on the flannel bottoms he was wearing. His body jerked again, bringing him closer. His thigh pressed against the side of mine.

This isn’t right.

I shouldn’t get to do this, but knowing that didn’t stop me. Slowly, I lifted my gaze to his.

His eyes were blue as the deepest seas I’d never seen in real life but had circled on that map above my desk. Somehow our faces had gotten closer and closer during my exploration. Our breaths mingled together.

I closed the distance.

The contact of my mouth against his was just as shocking and electrifying as it had been the first time, maybe even stronger now. It was just the sweetest, gentlest of pressures. Only my mouth moving against his, and then his hand was on the nape of my neck.

I made a sound I’d never heard myself make before, opening my mouth to him, and whatever control Sebastian had, whatever was holding him back, snapped. Sebastian kissed me, really kissed me. My heart threatened to explode. His tongue slipped in. He tasted of mint and him. My hand moved to his hip and flexed, urging him closer, but he couldn’t get closer. Not with my sore ribs and the bum arm.

But he kissed me, drank from my lips and mouth and my sighs. And he moved down, nipping at my lower lip, drawing out a moan, and he kissed his way down my throat when I kicked my head back, giving him more access. He licked and sucked, paying special attention to this spot just below my ear that had my toes curling and my hips twitching restlessly. Then he was devouring my lips once more, our tongues tangling and the only sound in the room was our panting breaths.

I had no idea how long we kissed. It went on for forever, and there was no faking or pretending each time we dived back into each other, wanting and silently begging for more. Friends did not kiss friends like this. They didn’t clutch at one another like we were, my fingers digging into his hip and side, his hand a firm hold on my neck, unwilling to let me go even though I wasn’t running.

And still, we kissed and kissed.

When his mouth finally lifted from mine, I pressed my forehead into his shoulder. Breathing heavily, I curled my fingers into his shirt. For what felt like an eternity, neither of us moved and then he shifted back down on his side, curling his hand over my hip. His hand moved, drifted up and down my back in long, smoothing strokes, and his breath danced warmly on my cheek.

And we didn’t talk the rest of the night.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE



I stared at the stupid poster on the wall. It was a picture of skydivers holding hands and underneath in large print was one word: TEAMWORK.

Only a high school would have a poster of people willingly jumping out of planes as an example of teamwork. That wasn’t the kind of team I’d want to be a part of.

Dr. Perry was waiting. He’d asked me a question. Like he’d done last Wednesday and Friday, and it was now Monday, the start of my second week back, and nothing and everything had changed.

This week’s question was different from last week’s. Then he’d just really focused on how I was adapting to being back at school and when I was planning to start going to volleyball practice even though I couldn’t do anything. I’d dodged that last question, just like I dodged Coach Rogers. He’d asked how I was handling the morbid curiosity from the other students. And how I was in my classes. He’d talked about the accident. Not what was so obviously in my file, but about how hard it was to allow yourself to let go of the guilt of surviving and how important it was to move on.