“And the second you walked away, you acted like you didn’t know my name.”
“I did, and I’m sorry.”
“Why? Why did you do it?”
Because after I walked off that porch, I knew. Lucas wasn’t just some guy to hang out with on a Friday night. And all that fluttering in my middle wasn’t just a lethal cocktail of teenage hormones and postwrap high either. It was different. More.
It wasn’t going to end on Sophie’s deck. I knew I could fall for him. Get swept away. Follow my heart until I changed. Until he changed me the way Charlie changed my mother.
How can I explain any of that? Answer: I can’t.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” I say instead.
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Tell me why.”
My eyes fall to the Dangerous on his arm. Feels about right. “Because I’m afraid.”
“Afraid because we kissed?” he asks.
“Afraid because you’re you.”
He steps closer, and my breath catches. Another step and I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull air at all. He lowers his head until I can see the prominent line of his nose, the wide, heavy-lidded set of his eyes.
“You wishing you could undo what happened?” he asks.
My heart double-thumps because I know that look. He wants to kiss me again. Or still. I don’t know which word applies. I only know I want it too. And I can’t.
I step back, foot wobbling over a root, finding harder ground. Another step and I’m turning, trees stretching up around me like walls. I can’t be here anymore. The real world is out there somewhere, with my dad and my senior year and all those little stupid things I worked hard to keep under control. My room is out there, my yellowing quilt and the window air conditioner that smells like a cheap hotel and drips cold water onto my carpet. I want to go home.
Lucas catches me a hundred yards down the stream. I’m already breathless and stiff-legged, and mosquitoes are flitting around my head and neck. But he’s not winded, steady hands clamped on my arms and voice even when he says my name. Of course he’s steady. He takes one step for every three of mine.
“Let me go,” I say.
“It’s dark, Sera,” he says.
“Let go!” I push against his grip with a keening sound that should embarrass me. It doesn’t. Pushing doesn’t work, so I pull hard. I’m free but not for long.
Lucas grabs me again, gently, but I’m lurching like a dog on a chain. He hauls me back against him, and I take a breath. He doesn’t smell great, but he’s so solid and warm and making all the right soft, hushing noises.
“You’re smarter than this,” he says. “Think for just one damn minute here. We don’t have to talk. Just don’t run.”
“I can’t stay here,” I say around a hiccup. “I have to get out of here.”
“You will.”
I swallow hard, eyes jumping from tree to tree.
Lucas’s hands tighten on my arms. “Sera. You will get out of here, OK?”
“You can’t promise me that.” I hiccup over a sob. “You can’t rescue us.”
His smile softens all his sharp places. “Hell, what are you talking about? I’m planning on you rescuing me, Spielberg. Figured you could piggyback me back to town.”
A laugh finds its way through my sob, but I’m still shaky.
“I didn’t mean to make you run,” he says.
“You didn’t.” Which is why I can’t keep ignoring his questions. I don’t want to talk about us any more than I want to talk about the food in that cooler or look at the letters on his arm. But I have to.
I take a slow breath and look at him. “I don’t regret what happened, but it wasn’t supposed to happen. I can’t go to that place, you know? It’s just not something I can do.”
It’s a weird explanation, one that hints at rules he can’t possibly understand and wreckage from my mom he can’t possibly see. I wait for him to sigh, maybe to let go. But he doesn’t. He just accepts it.
Forest sounds stretch between us, and weird, twitchy energy hums beneath my skin like I’m an amplifier. I’m buzzing with too much power, primed to pop at the slightest provocation. Lucas’s hands spread over my shoulder blades, and I go still. The humming slows. I can feel the press of every finger. The heat of his chest.
Something stirs low in my belly, and I think of a dozen afternoons in the shop, his welding mask propped up on his head and his face streaked with sweat and grime. I always sat on the edge of a bench, swinging my legs and watching him work. Feeling as frenetic and confused as the sparks scattering on the concrete floor by his boots.
I feel like those sparks now, but it’s familiar. Almost comforting.
His thumb grazes my spine, and my stomach dips low. He does it again, and my whole world shrinks down to that single touch. The repetition of it crawls under my skin, bringing back all the times I turned the other way when I saw him, hand on my chest, trying to press my pulse back to something normal.