Finally, he looks up at me. “You would like it there.” His jaw is tight, his shoulders tighter. The words sound like a confession, which makes no sense at all.
“It’s how you said you thought it would be. Especially the water. It’s… There’s nothing like it. The smell. The way the air feels. Like it’s passing over you. Moving around you. Like it’s never going to stop, it just goes by… It makes the city feel alive.” He lifts his head, but doesn’t look at me. Instead he keeps his gaze out on the water. “The snow is thick and dry. Like Colorado, but…I think colder. With a different kind of wind. I’m no writer, but it makes you want to be outside in it, and indoors by a fire too. I had a fireplace there. I drank coffee. Not black, but just with a little bit of cane sugar and milk. The way you said your dad told you your mom liked it. I had this red mug that I bought. In Boston. All our rooms where I lived—I lived with a bunch of other students— they were built around this common-room workshop. I didn’t like that, though. I don’t like working with anybody else around. Not most of the time. I put sheets up and I would work behind them, by this window. Outside it, there were these huge trees. I don’t know what kind, but I painted them. Painted a lot of cityscape, because that’s what I saw. The street vendors, the RIPTA—public transportation. The professors there are awesome. Hands down. Like your dad, but…more enthusiastic. Open. Helping students is their life. Not that Oliver isn’t awesome, but this was different. They’re…hands on. Sometimes too much.” I watch his big hand come up to his forehead, rubbing. Still, his eyes are on the water.
“Everything you’d want there. It’s exactly like you said.”
“I guess I see now why you didn’t call.” I mean the words to sound sarcastic, but they don’t. They’re understanding. Approving, even. Because I wanted this for him. I wanted it to be perfect for my perfect Dash.
I can see him from the side, see the way his lips press together and his nostrils flare. That’s the only way I know he isn’t happy. Isn’t satisfied with magical Rhode Island.
“I un-enrolled.”
“What?”
Dash is stone still.
“Why?” I whisper.
He brings a hand up to his eyes, as if he’s shielding them from sunlight. “I’m going to travel,” he says toward his palm.
And I can feel it rolling off him: misery. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything. But I know I can’t stay on my dumb rock, watching him ache in front of me. Not when I could sit beside him on the sand.
I know even before I’m there beside him that my arms cannot be stopped. They’re going around him. I slide down to my knees there in the sand and embrace him from the back, throwing my arms around his shoulders, leaning on him as I press my cheek against his neck.
I can feel his body stiffen—“Am…”—before his back relaxes and he’s reaching back to touch my face.
“Amelia—”
“I miss you…”
Then he’s lifting me over his shoulder. Then I’m in his lap, hugging his neck, and Dash’s arms are locked around me.
Oh my God. My cheek is pressed against his throat, and I can smell him. He’s hugging me so hard, it almost hurts.
I feel this little jerk… this shudder. I can feel his lungs expand, then freeze—as if he’s holding his breath.
I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. He nuzzles my hair with his chin. Runs his warm hands down my arms. He hugs me tight once more, then pushes me away with wide eyes.
“What?” The word is breathless.
“No.” He tries to stand up, but I catch him by the elbow.
“Dash— What’s wrong?”
“I can’t let you touch me, Am! Can’t you tell I’m fucking drunk?”
Tears sting in my eyes. “No.” They start to fall down my cheeks, and I feel so stupid. So, so stupid. Why do I love him like this? Why do I love him when he doesn’t feel the same way? I fold my arms around myself. “I didn’t know.” The words are quiet and shaky, turning Dash’s hard face soft.
He moves toward me, catching me again and pulling me against him.
“Am…” He rubs his lips against my hair, and I can feel him panting. As if he’s been running. It’s peculiar, even more so because it makes me feel so hot and restless. “Thanks for walking with me,” he says, husky, “but you’ve gotta go now.”
My body thrums. Everything I’m sensing points to one conclusion, but my mind just can’t accept it. Too outrageous.
I press myself against him, smiling up at him to let him know I want to be here. That’s when I feel something hard against my hip. I notice, as my mind does a slow somersault, that Dash’s eyes are heavy, molten.
His hips seem to twitch, and I feel it clearly against me: his erection. “Am…” His hand rubs over my hair. “You’ve gotta go. I’m fucking drunk and I’ve been missing you for months. All I could think about up there was you.”
The words are so shocking, at first I think I heard him wrong.
“What?”
“I know,” he says heavily. His warm fingers stroke my cheek. “But I can’t stop myself. You’re perfect.”
Perfect?
“Me?”
“I wanted to call,” he says with those strange eyes. He seems sedated somehow, but also energized, as if the two of us are buzzing. “I wanted to, Amelia, but I couldn’t. It’s so wrong,” he groans.
“What do you mean?” My heart is pounding so hard, I think I might be sick. “What do you mean?” I ask him, breathless.
He frames my face with both his palms, and I notice that they’re damp. “I mean,” he says softly, “it’s wrong to want you like this.”
Dash wants me.
He wants me.
Tears swim in my eyes. I feel my body start to tremble against his. I grab onto his arm, and Dash wraps me against his chest.
For a long moment, we just stand there, holding onto each other. I feel him breathing. I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat. Something deep down low in me is pulsing.
He wants me!
“It’s not wrong.” I twine my arms around his neck, and am electrically aware of my breasts against his chest—of the flickering between my legs. “If you mean it… If you really…think that about me. I feel the same way,” I whisper.
Bliss and terror wash through me. That this is even real. When Dash doesn’t reply, I look up to find his eyes squeezed shut. His hands, on my shoulders, feel like talons. “Please, Amelia.”
“What?”
His eyes open. He heaves a heavy breath. “You have to stop. I told you…I’ve been drinking.”
“I’ve seen you drunk before.”
Again, his eyes shut. “You don’t understand… You don’t even know what I’m saying.” The words sound tortured.