1. ♡

This was a very, very bad idea. As I stared down at the broken sugar cookie in my hand—the remains of what had once been a perfect heart-shaped treat of delicious sugary goodness but had quickly turned into a crumbling mess the moment I picked it up from its cooling tray—I could only hope that Bailee would forgive me. I mean, after all, it was only one of the dozens of other cookies spread across the kitchen counter, dusted with flour and ready to be frosted; surely it wouldn’t be a problem that I’d crushed any hopes of it ever looking presentable. Right?

         But then again this was my sister—my nine-year-old sister—we were talking about, and these cookies were supposed to be “perfect” for her and her friends from school. So it was kind of a big deal. And she’d been counting on me. But of course, now, with my hands all powdery and sugar coated with guilt, my chances of resolving this little issue and winning back her admiration were very slim. Practically microscopic.         Oh, the joys of having a little sister who’ll beg you to help her make cookies the day before a Valentine’s Day party in school. (Sarcasm very much intended.)

        “You call that art?” Without even looking at her, I could tell Bailee was smirking at me, trying—and nearly failing—to hold back her laughter at my pathetic attempts to merely frost a stupid cookie. “Hate to break it to you, sissy, but I don’t think opening your own bakery any time soon is in your best interest. Or anything that involves handling things with care for that matter.”

        Setting golden bits of the cookie still hanging on by a slim thread down, I let out a considerably loud sigh and pushed the urge to run out of the room before anything else could go wrong away. At least she didn’t sound completely disappointed in my inability to handle a cookie with care. I mean, I tried, okay?  It’s not like I meant to crumble it; it just happened.

        “Gee, thanks, Bails,” I mumbled, wiping my hands off on my green and gold butterfly apron from back in the days when I’d often helped my mum in the kitchen as a young girl (it had always been too big on me back then, anyway), and looking up at my adorably golden sister. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever decide to run my own business. Pinky swear.”

         She grinned at me, having momentarily abandoned her unharmed cookie to investigate the mess I’d made, her squinty blue-gray eyes sparkling behind those long lashes of hers, and stuck out her pinky across the counter space between us. “Pinky swear, huh? Let’s have it.”

         Darn it. Why did she have to be so freakin’ adorable? That smug (and yet somehow still innocent) look on her face made it impossible to wallow in my mourning over the death of the heart-shaped dessert I had just destroyed. (Let’s be honest here, though . . . that heart was never cut out for this world anyways. I probably did it a favor by breaking it. I regret nothing.)

         And so, giving in to her cuteness (mostly because I wasn’t about to encourage dwelling on the subject any longer), I leaned across the counter and wound my pinky around hers, shaking on it, and said, “Pinky promise. Now can we just move on please? I’m really sorry I ruined your cookie.” Then I pressed my palms flat against a relatively clear space—merely sprinkled with flour—on the smooth marble counter top, the surface cool beneath my fingertips, and blew a strand of white-blond hair (lightened from the previous summer spent at our beach house by the shore) that had fallen from the messy bun on top of my head out of my face, cracking a small smile.

         She nodded, her honey-blonde ponytail bobbing behind her, and licked some frosting off her finger before washing her hands in the deep-set sink to the far left side of the kitchen, under a window that displayed layers of bright snow covering every inch of the outdoors. “It’ll be our little secret,” she promised as she returned to her task of perfecting the half-frosted cookie in front of her, flashing me a wink right beforehand. “But just in case you’re tempted to make a habit of it, Cookie Monster, you should probably start sprinkling the finished cookies with these hearts instead.” She held up the bottle of tiny red, white, and pink sprinkles, that signature smirk sneaking up her lips again. “I’ve got to be able to bring at least a few goodies to my friends tomorrow. It is a party, you know.”

         Now I’m the Cookie Monster? Oh, how lovely . . . not. “You’re a pain sometimes, you know that,” I said innocently, as a small bubble of laughter unwillingly tumbled from my dry, chapped lips. She narrowed her brows at me, and I could tell she was preparing to defend herself if need be. This time the widening of my smile was one-hundred percent genuine. “But . . . I still love you to death, Bails. And I couldn’t have asked for a better little sis.”

         After that, as I moved around the counter to set myself up for Operation Make The Cookie Look Good Without Touching It, Bailee mumbled “Right back at you,” and squeezed the small white tube with cheery-red frosting inside, spreading a swirly pattern on a new cookie. Then I nudged her arm from my spot to the left of her and clicked on the radio using the small, circular remote balanced on top of an open box of sugar cookie mix, letting myself get lost in the experience of just spending some good ol’ fashioned time with my sister, bonding over cookies and music and a whole lot of childish fights that involved impressive amounts of frosting and flour.

 “What do you mean you can’t go?”

        Later that same day, after decorating a little over two dozen cookies until they reached a suitable level of holiday pizzazz (Bailee’s words, not mine), I sat cross-legged on my bed, with a beach towel draped underneath me so that the patches of flour Bailee had smeared all over me wouldn’t leave a white stain on my Pikachu bed sheets. (And yes, I just said I have Pikachu bed sheets; I went through a phase of adoring the little creature a few months back. Sue me.) My cell phone—one of the simplistic freebies my parents got with some special family-plan deal, complete with a slide out texting keyboard that I couldn’t even use and decorated with a bedazzled Pikachu case (shocking, I know)—was directly in front of me, projecting my best friend Lila’s  incoherent mutters of disbelief on speakerphone.

       “What I mean is just that: I can’t go tonight. I have to watch Bailee,” I explained slowly, interrupting her unnecessary tirade of sorts. She stopped muttering for a second, hopefully to process the news and realize she’d lost this battle. But then I heard the faintest sounds of a printer going in the background, the jangling of keys, and the unmistakable sigh of relief that when dealing with Lila could only mean one thing: She was up to something. Something that screamed trouble.

        “Well. I hate to ruin your exhilarating plans, babe, but that’s just not acceptable,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “You are going out with me and the groupies tonight. And that’s that. No negotiations allowed.” There was a lot of shuffling on the other end, a loud thud followed by a string of curse words her mother would have grounded her for ever even thinking about much less muttering, and then the slamming of a car door. I was still trying to process the possibility of skipping out on a Sunday night of babysitting and relaxing in my bedroom while I watched The Notebook on my laptop for the fiftieth time, just to go to out with some friends for a Valentine’s Day celebration—destination unknown—that probably involved at least a little illegal drinking, when she added, “I’ll be over in five. Better start getting ready.”

        Shoot. How am I supposed to explain to her I don’t really want to go?

       Exactly ten minutes later (Lila was famous for being “fashionably late”, always marching in to things at her own pace), Bailee answered the door before the girl on the other side even had the chance to knock. Not that she needed to, considering the fact that she knew exactly where we keep our spare key: in the bright red and yellow birdfeeder that hung from a chain beside the wooden porch swing now covered in snow. But nevertheless, I felt a little burst of disappointment bubble inside of me; I had been hoping to keep the unnecessary confrontations to a minimum, after all. And Bailee didn’t need to know what Lila was up to.           I mean, I wasn’t sure that even I wanted to know what exactly it was she was up to. Though I could only assume it involved a lot of sneaking around – or at the very least, some wacky plan that required a little Fairy Godmother kind of magic – and a whole lot of kicking and screaming on my part.

         “Lila McDuffie!” Bailee squealed as she opened the front door to reveal my scheming best friend, who looked rather flirty in her little black party dress, the one with a heart-shaped neckline and tiny rubies embedded into the bodice, tight and revealing enough to draw the attention of boys all over town. “You look gorgeous! But what are you doing here?”

         Lila reached forward and wrapped Bails into a quick hug. “Just stopped by to borrow your sister for a few hours,” she explained as she pulled away, and when she saw me, standing at the foot of the staircase only a few feet away from her, she raised a pointed brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “What on earth happened to you? I thought I told you to get ready? Not jump into a bed of—what is that—flour?”         

         Fumbling with the ends of my powdery hair, I tried to think up an excuse that didn’t make me sound completely pathetic. But before I could say anything, Bailee interjected with, “We had a major flour war break out while we were frosting cookies for my Valentine’s Day party earlier! Well, actually, I was the one frosting the cookies because Reina couldn’t do it without destroying them, but it was a lot of fun! We totally trashed the kitchen. You should have been there.”

         I was this close to retreating back into my bedroom, as if none of this had ever happened, and never speaking to another soul again—except for maybe my pet hamster, Oscar (not that he really counted, since he never spoke back); but I thought better of it. After all, Lila and I had been friends for so long, dating back to that first day we ran into each other—literally ran into each other on the way to school—right on the sidewalk of a busy neighborhood a couple blocks away in second grade, that the news of my pathetic (and by pathetic, I mean non-existing) cookie handling skills didn’t seem to surprise her that much. She had grown to accept me and my “quirks” by now.

          Well, for the most part, at least.

         So instead of laughing at me and disowning me as her friend, like some people would have, she simply nodded her head and cracked a smile. “Wish I could have been there.” Her ocean blue eyes twinkled, despite the hall’s dim lighting. “I’ve always loved a good food fight, you know,” she added, flashing me a wink.             Bailee smiled that adorable and incredibly contagious smile of hers, the one just wide enough that you could see her missing teeth, and scuffed her feet against the puke green and mustard yellow rug I’d been begging my parents to replace for years. “Me too,” she said quietly. Then, with her hands on her hips, she added, all back to business, “So. Are you really going to steal my Cookie Monster away for the night?”

            “Hold up.” Lila gave me a questioning look. “Cookie Monster?”

             I shrugged, “Yep.”

         “She killed the cookie.” Bailee gave her a pointed look, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “‘Cookie killer’ doesn’t have the same ring to it,” she explained, giggles now escaping her lips, “as ‘Cookie Monster’? Don’t you think?”

          “Ah, you’ve got that right,” Lila agreed, and laughed out loud. “But to answer your question, Bails . . . I’d very much appreciate it if you let me steal Reina for a couple of hours. I even invited Dexter to come stay with you while we’re out. At least until your parents get back.”

          Bailee’s eyes lit up, and she dropped her hands in front of her. “You mean,” she said, rocking on the balls of her bare feet, “Cowboy Dexter?”  Lila nodded in reply. “Really?” This time, when Lila replied with an easy “Yep,” popping the p, Bails let it all go, squealing, jumping up and down, and nearly squeezing the life out of my best friend all in a matter of seconds.

         I didn’t even have the chance to blink before she was smothering me in hugs.  “Oh, please please please let me hangout with Cowboy Dexter, Reina! It’d make today the best. Day. Ever!” She sounded just like Rapunzel from Tangled (her all-time favorite Disney movie), enthusiasm dripping into her desperate pleads. “Pretty please with vanilla cupcakes and sprinkles?”

           Leave it to a nine-year-old girl with a crush on one of your good friends—a fifteen-year-old boy who worked at his father’s diner and always wore his cowboy hat (no matter what he was doing)—to make your day turn completely upside down. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the joys – or burdens, depending on how you look at it – of sisterhood.

           Now, despite the fact that I wasn’t too keen on the idea of going to this sketchy gathering with Lila (mainly because I wasn't fond of going on spontaneous outings in the first place), I couldn’t necessarily turn down my sister either. So, with a sigh, I caved. “Fine, you can hang out with ‘Cowboy Dexter’. But mom and dad will be back by eleven, and you must be in bed no later than ten, all right? Promise?”

         She chirped out a high pitched squeak, jumping up and down and throwing her arms around me. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Reina!” she squealed, squeezing the air out of my lungs. “I promise I’ll be in bed by ten. No worries. And I’ll even be sure to save you a couple of the extra cookies for when you get home.” Another squeal. “You’re the best sister EVER!”

          Smiling brightly at her, I pried her off me and gave her a shove in Lila’s direction. “She’s the one who set up this whole thing,” I said. “I think she’s the one who really deserves your gratitude.”           

         Jumping up and down in excitement, her long, blonde curls bouncing with the movement, she practically threw herself into Lila’s arms and thanked her more times than I could count on one hand, shrieking uncontrollably. “I owe you, Lila McDuffie! Big time.”

          Lila bent down and whispered something in her ear, something I couldn’t quite catch over the ticking of our old grandfather clock adjacent to the photos on the wall right beside the kitchen entrance, and they both giggled like the manipulative girls they were. And then, with Bailee following in tow, Lila started up the stairs, saying, “Come on, Reina. We’ve got to get you ready for tonight.” She paused on the fifth stair. Then she added, albeit a little more quietly, “And that special surprise.”

           With my foot on the bottom step and my hand on the staircase’s railing, I froze, my pulse in my throat. Oh no. This cannot be happening, I thought, getting this deep, sinking feeling in my stomach. No more surprises. I can't handle any more surprises. Never again.

             And by the way she said that dreadful little word, I knew it was only going to bring trouble. Lots and lots of trouble.

             If only I had known just how drastically my life would change because of it.

2. ♡

Well, this certainly was not what I'd been expecting, I thought, as I weaved my way through the mercilessly packed crowd at the entrance of Buxton's Under Twenty One night club. Not in the slightest. Squeezing my way around a teenage couple who had taken attached at the hip to a whole other level, their bodies so entangled together it was as if they had become one person, I tried to ignore the oppressive wave of anxiety that crawled up my spine, spreading goose bumps across my otherwise warm skin, tempting me to just turn around, walk out those large, blood-red doors, and find my way back home, where there was nothing but the promise of a pleasantly uneventful rest of the evening.

     Now, don’t get me wrong: I actually liked the idea of spending the night in the presence of my friends, laughing and making complete and utter fools of ourselves. I just didn’t understand why it had to be done in the presence of so many horny, love-sick—and obliviously wasted—teenagers on the eve of one of the most over-hyped “holidays”. There were much better places we could have celebrated at. Places that didn’t offer the same worrisome amount of alcohol, drugs, loud music, dirty dancing, and sweaty brawls, as the infamous Buxton’s did.

    I knew I wasn’t an expert of how this place worked, but I’d been here enough times to see more drunken parties and catty fights than one sixteen-year-old could ever ask for. So you could say I had reason not to be its biggest fan.

    “Reina Elizabeth Williams, are you even listening to me?”

    Freezing in place, right before my ruby slippers had the chance to brush against the colorful tiles of the dance floor, packed with teenagers and young adults desperate to show off their moves, I bit my lip to suppress the smile that threatened to break across my lips. Apparently I’d been so caught up in trying to rid my body of the night club jitters I hadn’t even noticed Lila was speaking to me. And now, as she scurried up from behind me, nudging me in the side, I heard that familiar twinge of annoyance dripping from her honey-sweet voice. “I was talking to you.”       “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head and trying to act as innocent as possible, “I must have spaced out for a sec. You were saying?”    

      She spun me around, hands at the tops of my arms. When she noticed the smile that was creeping up my lips, despite my desperate efforts to keep my expression neutral, she shook her head, making a scoffing sound under her breath. “Oh, you know,” she said, in a tone that was incredibly close to the mocking side, “nothing important. Just that I caught your brother and his girlfriend having sex in the little ladies room.”

      “Lila!” Horrified by the mere suggestion that my fifteen-year-old little brother—who in fact was currently going through a rebellious phase—would do something as careless as that, I  struggled to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor. Then I gave her shoulder a light shove. “That is so not funny!”

      “Oh come on, Reina,” she replied, grinning like the Cheshire cat, “you know you want to laugh. Don’t try to deny it.” She pulled a tube of lip-gloss from her diamond encrusted clutch and squeezed the cherry-red substance across her lips, before smacking them together and holding the tube out to me. Hesitantly, I took it. “Besides, I have your attention now, don’t I?”

      “You’re ridiculous,” I sighed, stifling a laugh as I refreshed my chapped, rosy lips. “You really make me question how we ever became friends in the first place, you know.”

      “Right back at you.” Her eyes twinkled under the bright, flashing lights of the club as she stared at me, sapphire gems peering deep into my own plain old hazel ones. “But anyways, we should probably get a head start out on the dance floor, before Landon and Kiara show up.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she linked our elbows together and started towards the dance floor. “That’s what I was really trying to talk to you about earlier.”

      “Oh.” I blinked, momentarily taken aback by the fact that we were heading straight for the overly crowded dance floor, straight for a disaster waiting to happen. “But wait.” I dug my heels in—which in turn caused a boy who’d been following too close behind us to slam into me, nearly knocking me off my feet, before he muttered something along the lines of “Watch where you’re going” in a slurred voice and was soon lost in the crowd—and handed Lila her lip-gloss back. “I’m not a dancer. I don’t dance, especially not with an audience. How about we just go hang out in the game room or something and wait for the others to show?”

      “No way, babe,” she insisted, tugging me towards the floor with much more determination this time. “You need to live a little. And that means you’re coming with me. Now.”     

      Oh joy. Hooray for me.

       Not.  

“Hey there, pretty lady,” a deep, familiar voice purred from behind me. “Whatcha doin’ all by your lonesome?” Well-toned arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me against a warm and equally toned chest. “Did your friends ditch you to go make-out in some shady corner?” I could feel him chuckling, the vibration thrumming under my already hot skin. “‘Cause, if you were interested, I could always keep you company.”

      Snickering at that, I wiggled out of the boy’s arms and turned to face him, placed my hands on my hips. His lips were turned into his trademark half-smile, one that could easily melt any girl’s heart in an instant, and I had to fight the sudden urge to snuggle back up into his arms and accept his offer. “Call me crazy,” I said instead, closing the space in between us a little, so that, even despite our height differences (he easily had about three inches on me), I could feel his breath on my face, catching the whiff of mint and vanilla that came along with it, “but I highly doubt your girlfriend would appreciate that.”    

      If he didn’t stop looking at me so intently like he was, things were going to get ugly. And by ugly, I mean I was going to lose all self-control and fall at his feet, begging him to take me to one of those so-called shady corners, where no one would bother to look for us and we could do whatever we pleased. Oh man. Not attractive.      

      “You’re right,” a sugar-coated voice spoke up, snapping me out of my shameful little thoughts, “she wouldn’t. Especially not in the middle of a date.”  

      Spinning on my heel, I regarded the lucky girl who had captured the attention of the charming young suitor standing behind me, at this very place two months earlier: Kiara—or as she preferred everyone called her, Kiki—Jackson, the feisty red-head of our “possie” with a knack for accepting even the craziest of dares and flirting with complete strangers, no matter how attractive or otherwise. Just like she’d done to win the affections of the boy who now held her heart.

      Jules Rane—the swoon-worthy boy who was still standing way too close for my own good—crushed the petite girl into his arms, mumbling, “I would never do that to you, sunshine.” Then, before I even had time to process what was going on, he lifted her up and spun her around in circles (thankfully they’d moved far enough away so I wasn’t pummeled to the ground), and their lips met, feverishly.

      Pierced with an uninvited stab of something worse than jealousy—the growing pains of a memory I had no interest in remembering—I turned away, chewing on my lip, the previous happiness I’d felt the moment before, built up from a couple hours of finally letting go for once, gone. Vanished. All because of one stupid, pathetic memory of a boy with icy blue eyes and the most breathtaking smile I’d ever laid eyes on.

      The same boy I couldn’t forget, couldn’t let go . . . no matter how desperately I wanted to.

      No matter how easily he obviously had. 

       "You okay, Reina?" 

    Blinking back the hot tears that threatened to wreak havoc down my cheeks, spreading a dangerous fire that would surely fail to die out once started, I slowly turned back to my friends, my arms crossed over my chest. “Yeah, of course,” I mumbled, forcing a smile and trying to keep my tone even. “I’m just a little flighty tonight, that’s all. Don’t worry about me.”

       Jules, who’s intoxicating smile was almost as contagious as Bailee’s, nodded, willing to let the subject slide. But Kiki, on the other hand, being the brilliant snoop she was (and well aware of what happened last summer), could tell something was up, and frowned at me, her cheeks, flushed from her activity with Jules, darkening a shade. She knew.

       “Hey, baby,”—she glanced up at her boyfriend’s radiant face, flashing him the kind of smile that had yet to let her down when it came to guys—“would you mind getting me another diet Root Beer from the bar? And maybe a Shirley Temple for Reina, too, while you’re at it? I promise I’ll pay you back.”

       He grinned—the kind of naughty, mischievous grin that could only mean one thing. “I don’t want your money.”

     With a radiance of suggestion I could never even dream of pulling off, she grinned—just as naughtily—and whispered, “I know.”

       He kissed the top of her head, his hands cupped around her face, and I felt that unwanted pang again, this time at the heart. Then, with a small wave of his hand, he told us he’d be right back and slipped past a few crowds to the other side of the club, where the bar and bathrooms were, along with the DJ who hadn’t stopped entertaining the increasingly sex-driven dancers on the floor.

     “What’s wrong?” Kiki asked, pulling me into a corner so that no stragglers could eavesdrop. “Does it have to do with Gavin?”

      My stomach churned at the sound of his name. No. No, no, no, I thought, as toxic pangs of regret and pain and longing coursed throughout my entire body, eclipsing every last nerve. I gasped when a new memory hit me, all at once, so strongly, so bitterly, I had to reach my hand out towards the wall to steady myself. My lungs felt hollow; my pulse raced in my throat. I gulped air but couldn’t even concentrate enough on one thing to know if it was doing any good. All I saw, all I felt, was that one memory, as if I’d gone back in time and lived it all over again. Piercing me deeper than any physical pain ever could.

      It was three weeks before school started, last summer. The air was crisp and warm, perfect weather for a biking run down to the community park, where I often went to feed ducks in the pond and clear my head. As I peddled my bike down one of the sidewalks, my white-blonde hair blowing in the breeze, the sun’s rays beamed down upon my bare shoulders, warming my skin with a flourish. It was the first sunny day in days and I was determined to make the most of it.

      When I arrived at the pond, my bag filled with small bits of food for the little ducklings, I noticed I wasn’t the only one with a heart for the creatures. Gavin Monroe, my next-door-neighbor-turned-more-than-friend, had his hands full of food. I smiled as he threw a couple pieces of bread at the ducks that gathered around him, my insides enriched with a new, foreign wave of warmth that had very little to do with the weather and everything to do with the tall, breathtaking boy who stood before me.

      The same boy I’d been fawning over ever since the first day he noticed me in freshman year, five months after he’d moved into the house next door.

      “Hey, stranger,” I said, coming up to stand beside him, as I pulled the bag from my shoulder and reached in to pull out a few small bits of bread. “Taking a moment to enjoy nature for what it is, huh?”

     He smiled, but only briefly, and I couldn’t help but wonder if something was up. After all, he’d always been the guy I could count on having a smile for me when I needed one. “Hey, Reina,” he said softly, his voice a bit straggled. That was all the confirmation I needed: something was wrong. And then he said it, said the one sentence I had never wanted to hear him say to me. “We need to talk.”

      That was the day he left me behind, left everything we had ever worked for in the dust, never once coming back to look for it. To look for me.

      When I came back to reality, Kiki was shaking me, her small, bony fingers pinching the skin of my cool, bare shoulders. “Reina, talk to me! You look like you’re going to pass out! What’s going on?”

      Blinking away the haze from the nightmare-like memory, I tried to calm the racing of my heart and caving in of my lungs. Breathe, I told myself, gulping air, just breathe. Water trickled down my cheeks and I quickly wiped it away, sick of the tears, sick of the pain. Sick of feeling weak all the time, all because of one stupid, selfish boy who'd stolen my heart and then up and left, never making an effort to contact me again. 

      "Nothing," I tried to convince her, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I just -- I didn't sleep well last night. I'm a little tired." 

     She saw right through my lies; we both knew what was really going on, of that much was I certain. And yet, instead of pressuring me to spill the beans and admit the shameful truth, she merely pulled me into a hug and said, "Good. Because you had me worried for a moment there." 

     In her arms, I could feel my anxiety slowly being drowned out, replaced by a new wave of peace. The kind of peace that could only come from the familiar comfort of friendly faces and embraces. "Nothing to worry about," I mumbled around a small smile, even though my heart wasn't in it quite yet. When she pulled away, her pink lips spread into a reassuring smile, big, brown eyes alight with sympathy, I crossed my arms over my chest, almost as if it could deflect any other unwanted attacks at my spirit.

       "Well," she said, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her strapless, salmon pink tutu dress, "now that that's covered, what do you say we go join Landon and Lila at the pool tables? Something tells me that they'll be needing our help."

      "Sounds good to me," I said, and took a deep, much needed breath as we began making our way to the game room. "But what about Jules? Will he know where to look for us?" 

      Kiki grinned wickedly, flashing impeccably white teeth. "He'll figure it out eventually."

"You have got to be kidding me," Lila snapped at Landon, nearly an hour later, after two games of pool that marked their score one-to-one. "I am not playing strip pool. No. Flipping. Way." She crossed her arms over her chest, giving him the look. "Go find someone else desperate enough to play your stupid games." 

      Landon, who was leaning against the table, pool stick in hand, chuckled, shook his head. "Why not, Li? Too scared you won't be able to handle seeing me naked?"

       She glared at him. "You're sick."

      "Oh come on," he cooed, taking a step closer to her, a cocky smile spread across his face, "you know you love it when I talk dirty to you."

      "Ew, gross," she shrieked, scrunching up her nose in disgust as she scurried over to stand next to me, by the miniature bar where I'd found a stool and "popped a squat", as my mother would say. "Get over yourself, Lan." 

     In a lame attempt at covering up the laughter that tumbled from my lips at their ridiculous argument -- not to mention the fact that, from across the room, on the opposite wall to us, I could see Kiki and Jules making out aggressively against the wall, like hungry animals at feeding time -- I brought my glass filled with a Shirley Temple to my lips and took a small sip. Their argument continued, getting increasingly more heated with the more crude the suggestive comments Landon made towards Lila were, while he wiggled his brows and winked at her, and she easily fired back at all his remarks.

     That was when I decided it would be best to just stay out of it. I had no interest in mingling with their affairs, especially when I wasn't exactly comfortable with where they were headed. So I didn't. 

       Hopping off the stool, I set my glass down and slid a ten dollar bill across the counter of the bar, before slipping into the crowd gathered around the entrance of the room, my friends oblivious to my departure, and searching for someplace I could go to clear my head. After spending hours in the humidity of the club, I was ready for a little space. In fact -- after the night I'd had so far -- I pretty much needed it. 

    But because I hadn't been paying close attention to where I was headed, I crashed into something--or, more accurately put, someone--hard, and put a damper on my quick escape plans. A straggled gasp leapt out of my throat as the air was knocked out of my lungs, knocking me off balance. Before I could fall to the ground or commit another equally embarrassing act that showcased my pathetic clumsiness, though, large, warm hands grasped onto my arms, holding me in place. My heart rate picked up, my vision going blurry as I submerged into a dizzy spell, but I tried to keep as calm as possible. 

       Then, I heard an achingly familiar voice pulling me out of my daze, asking me if I was all right. Without thought, my gaze traveled up towards the man's face, and the moment I fully took into account who the voice belonged to, whose arms I had managed to stumble into, my stomach somersaulted. 

        No, it couldn't be, I thought, as I stared into those same icy blue eyes I'd never wanted to see again. Not him, not now. Not like this. 

        "Gavin."

 

3. ♡

In that moment, right after I spoke his name, it was as if nothing else existed, nothing else mattered. It was just him and me, so close I could feel his breath on my face, hear the beat of his heart as it ever so slowly began to pick up its pace, while in the meantime my own heart pounded mercilessly against my chest. My knees began to shake; my entire body trembled in his arms, solely surrounded by all things him.

     It was too much. I wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t prepared for a confrontation, and especially not one with him; I’d thought he would never come back. And despite the small part of me that had wanted to see him again, I had been desperately hoping I’d never have to see—or talk to— him ever again.

     When realization finally dawned across Gavin’s face, he froze, his grip on my arms tightening, as he stared at me, mouth hanging open. “Reina,” he breathed, his voice husky, deep, just as it had been before. “Is it really you?” The death grip he had on my arms loosened, his body slowly relaxing. Meanwhile I was far from relaxed, my entire body thriving off the tension of being near to him again, rigid with anxiety. “Oh, Reina,” he repeated, in the same tone as before, only a little softer. “I was hoping that I’d find you here.”

      No, stop, I tried to say, but the words stuck in my throat, blocked by the lump that had formed the moment his eyes bore into mine. I averted my gaze, looking down at the black Converse he was wearing (typical Gavin) instead, feeling my face burn. You need to go away. Stay away from me. 

      Why had I suddenly lost all courage to even mutter one simple plea to him?

      Why was he even here? Not miles away, where he should be.

       I had so many questions, so many doubts, so many fears all bottled up inside, I didn't even know where to start, what to do. I just stood there, stunned, still trying to process what was happening. Still holding onto the ever thinning thread that this was all just a dream, all just in my imagination. Not actually happening, right here, right now. 

       “You okay, Reina?” he asked, rubbing his hands up and down my arms, leaving a trail of heat in the wake of his warm, calloused palms. His touch, so familiar and yet so unfamiliar in the wake of his departure, provoked the hairs on my arms to stand on end, goose bumps spreading along the tender skin, which tingled as an unexplainable energy coursed through my bloodstream, nerves on fire. “You’re shaking.” With one of his hands still holding me steady, he used the other to pull my chin up, so that he could see my face, which I was desperately trying to keep blank, free of all the emotions bottled up inside of me. “You don’t look so well, either.”

        My stomach twisted into knots as I caught another glimpse at his well-sculpted face— big, icy blue eyes glazed over with concern, eyebrows mirroring that same concern as they furrowed together, the left one twitching as it always did when he was perplexed or worried— and for a moment I thought I might puke; but I quickly pushed any of the urges away. “I-I’m fine,” I managed to stammer, my tone harsh, swallowing that sticky lump wedged in my throat. “I just need a little fresh air. So if you’ll just excuse me . . .” With all the fleeting strength I could muster, I tried to pull myself out of his grip, turning away from him so I wouldn’t get the chance to have any second thoughts.

         But he was stronger—and heck of a lot quicker— than I was, and crushed me into his arms before I could get far, his well-toned arms captivating me with one of his  familiar, trademark bear hugs. “It’s so good to see you again, Reina,” he said, his hot breath rustling my now messy curls, his tone incredibly soft and surprisingly genuine. But that didn’t matter. Because genuine or not, I didn’t want him to be happy to see me; I didn’t even want him here—not like this, not when I was trying so hard to forget he’d ever even been a part of my life. “I’ve really missed you.”

          Oh, he did not just say that. He did not just go there.

         Blinking back the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes and dampen his tight, black cotton T-shirt, I tried to calm the raging fires of anger and bitterness that scorched a hole in my already bleeding heart. He left you, all alone, was all I could think of when he said those haunting words, words I’d longed to hear for months after he disappeared, while I sat by my phone for hours on end, holding it out in front of me and desperately hoping his name would flash across the screen, signaling he did care, he hadn’t forgotten me. He lied to you, broke his promise. Then he gave up and forgot about you. You owe him nothing.

         My first instinct was to run. To slip out of his arms and get as far away from him as possible, before he managed to make an utter fool of me again. But then I remembered he’d probably just follow me, as he had done any of the other times I’d ran away from him while we’d been together, when I was afraid that we were getting too close, too fast. So surely running wouldn’t work. Which meant the only thing that could stand a chance at working was hurting him like he’d hurt me, striking him at his heart. And as much as I didn’t want to do that— as much as I wanted to just hold him forever and pretend he’d never hurt me in the first place, forgiving and forgetting—it seemed like the only option left. It was the only way I could be sure that he’d never come running back to me, just to build me up and tear me back down again when he left abruptly.  

        Taking a long, shaky breath, I told myself this was it: the time had come to tell him what he’d done, tell him all that he deserved to hear after everything he’d put me through. There was no turning back now, no second chances. I had to do this; I had to end things once and for all, otherwise I’d never forget. I’d continue to torture myself with all the memories, all the false hopes and dreams. I’d never move on, or let go, as everyone told me I should. 

         I’d been left open and scarred for too long. It was time I finally got the closure I’d longed for all these past months dwelling with the unknown.  

         Pressing my palms against his firm chest, I looked up at his face, forced a fake, cheery smile, and silently prayed that I could somehow pull this off. “Gavin,” I began, feeling the knot in my stomach grow and tighten as his name left my lips for the second time, “stop lying.” His countenance dropped, the resolved look on his face unraveling into one of confusion. “Stop pretending that you care. Stop acting like nothing bad happened between us. Just stop. Before you make a bigger ass of yourself.” Despite my frazzled state of mind, the words came out in an even, measured tone, calm and crisp, as if it wasn’t killing me to say them. I nearly stopped right there, my conscience catching up with me, warning me that I could cross a very thin line here. But I didn’t. The pain left from his departure was overwhelming my every thought, all those nights feeling alone and helpless and insignificant flooding back to me, and I couldn’t help but keep going. “I mean, did you seriously think that you could just waltz back here to find me and then sweep me up off my feet and into your arms again, after everything that happened, pretending that everything was perfectly fine? Did you seriously think that I wouldn’t care that you’d left me, all alone in the blazing summer heat, with no fair explanation? That I’d just forgive you and admit that I have, in fact, ‘missed you’, too?” His upper lip twitched, eyes widened, hurt splaying across his features in one quick beat of the bass echoing around us. “Is that what you expected? Because I hate to break it to you, Gav, but that won’t work here. I’m not that desperate.”

        “Reina, I—”

        “I’m not finished,” I cut in harshly, pressing my finger against his lips. My heart was pounding; my mind reeled with what to say. I swallowed, took a quick, cleansing breath. “I waited for you, you know. After you disappeared, I waited, day after day, for you to call me or text me or message me or something to give a further explanation or update on what was going on with you. But you never did, did you?” He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and I watched as his Adam’s Apple slowly bobbed up and down. “No, you didn’t. You just stayed silent, ignoring all my attempts to get you to talk to me, long gone and miles away.” I had to take another breath to calm myself as the words caught up with me, and quickly wiped away a stray tear that had managed to trickle its way down my cheek, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “And you know what probably hurt me the most? You didn’t care. You just pretended I hadn’t existed and went about your life as if nothing had happened between us. Even after all those long nights spent together on the beach last summer, holding hands and sharing secrets we hadn’t had the courage to tell anyone else, even after you held me in your arms that day at the bench by the park’s pond, promising me that things would be okay, that we could get through this.”

         By this time, as my voice jumped octaves, trembling as I reached the heart of my speech, we had begun making quite a scene— him, a tall and lean eighteen-year-old golden boy, getting yelled at and pushed around by a weak, petite sixteen-year-old little me. But all I could think of was last summer and all of the memories—good and bad—that came along with it. And I couldn’t stop. “You lied to me, Gavin. You promised me things would be okay. You promised we could work through the long-distance. And yet, when it came time to man-up and face me, you couldn’t even take one single second out of your day to make things work. So tell me now, Gavin. Do you honestly think that I’m going to believe that you missed me?”

        “Reina, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, rather breathlessly, taking a step towards me (considering the fact that I’d pushed him a few good feet away from me), “I-I never meant to hurt you like that. You have to believe me.”

        “Get away from me!” I shrieked, as he reached his hand out to touch my face, and I slapped it away. “Don’t touch me.” The words were laced with venom I didn’t know I even had in me, and my entire body quivered with the aggression of my anger and disgust. How could he say that? How could he possibly think that one stupid, meaningless apology could substitute for six months of abandonment? Seems like I was wrong about him all those months I’d waited, thinking a golden guy like him— a guy who’d comforted me on our living room sofa when my great uncle passed away, whispering sweet words of encouragement in my ear as he rocked me in his arms; and told me I was beautiful even when I knew I looked like someone with a bad hangover that time I’d gotten food-poisoning from one of the sushi restaurants near our beach house while we visited last summer, smiling at me as if he had just won the lottery and I was his earnings; and always lent a helping hand to anyone in need of assistance, even if he got nothing in return for his generosity—wouldn’t let me down. Thinking he’d call me and tell me he had just gotten swamped with college prep and we’d talk for hours into the early morning, just like we’d often done that summer.

         Seems like I had been wrong to ever let him charm his way into my life in the first place. Because when it really mattered, he’d left me stranded. And now, now that I’d opened my heart to him and lost myself, he couldn’t even fix what he’d broken, what he’d stolen. There was no explanation, no excuse, no apology that could magically change what had happened, magically remove the wedge in between us.

          His one mistake cost me months of crying myself to sleep, wondering if I wasn’t good enough, wondering if I had done something wrong, secretly praying he’d someday come running back to me, even though I knew it’d only tear me apart more.

          Just like it was right now.

          “Reina, please,” he begged, his eyes peering deep into my soul, pleading with me to fall subject to his games again, “just give me a chance to explain myself. Just give me a chance to fix things. Please.” His voice cracked, and as I numbly hugged my arms around myself, I watched the expression on his face transition from that of hurt and surprise, to one of pure desperation and longing. “I swear I never meant to hurt you, Reina. I was just being an ass, like you said.” I nearly scoffed at that, but had to bite my lip, hard, to keep myself from bursting into tears. “But I came back because I just wanted a second chance to make things right. Like I should have done in the first place. And I still want that, desperately. So just give me a chance to explain. Please.”

           As I stood there, surrounded by strangers and loud music and bright, flashing lights, face-to-face with the only boy I had ever truly fallen hard for, the same boy I’d thought had given up on me completely but had now come back to ask for one more chance, one more moment to “explain himself”, the only thing I could think of was how much I’d give to go back to the days when my heart was being torn in one-hundred different directions all because of this boy, back to the days when everything was simple and all I had to worry about was getting my homework done on time and making sure I kept an eye on my younger siblings when my parents were at work. Back to the days before I’d met Gavin Monroe and had fallen so madly, hopelessly in love with him. 

          With my heartbeat pulsing in my ears, my blood boiling under my skin, my knees shaking so badly it was a wonder I was still standing, I closed my eyes and banished the situation at hand for a moment, going back to the day he first asked me to go out with him.

 

 

It was sophomore year. Gavin was a senior, and despite our age gap and opposing statuses on the social ladder—he had become one of the most popular guys in school, the star athlete, while I had always been the girl with her head in a book, hanging out with a small group of friends and generally staying invisible to the “popular crowd”—we had become close friends. He made a habit of walking me to and from classes, driving me to and from school (considering we lived next door to each other), and I often waited on the bleachers at his football practices, sneaking glances at him when he wasn’t paying attention to the coach and was instead communicating with me in our own special language.

          I had always wondered what it would be like to be his girlfriend, what it would be like to have him look at me in that way; but I hadn’t thought it would actually happen— until that fateful Friday game night.

         Our team had won the big football game—thanks to Gavin—and all the guys on the team were planning on going over to Veronica Webber’s house for a victory blow out. All of them, it turned out, except for Gavin.

         After hanging out at the school with Lila and Landon for a good fifteen minutes after the game, I was rounding the corner of our street when I saw him, sitting out on the front porch, dressed in dark-washed jeans and a white button down shirt with a navy vest, staring at his watch. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time; I often found him chilling out on my porch when he needed some space from his occasionally overbearing mother. But looking back, I didn’t understand how I’d never seen the signs—like the way he kept glancing up from his watch, as if looking for someone, nervously running his hands through his disheveled blond locks and bouncing his foot against the steps.

         With a smile spreading across my lips, I’d picked up my pace, butterflies infesting my stomach as that familiar warmth washed over my body at the sight of him. “Hey, stranger,” I said when I reached him, and watched as he snapped his head up, a lopsided grin lighting up his face. “Whatcha doin here?”

          Rubbing his hands on his jeans, he cleared his throat and said, in a faltering voice I hadn’t heard him speak in before, “Just waiting for you.”

          My stomach flipped, my heartbeat fluttering against my ribcage at the thought of him waiting for me. I sat down, nudged him playfully in the side, which he then returned with a laugh. “Waiting, huh? How come?” My heart soared again when he looked at me, blue eyes twinkling in the fading sunlight. “I thought you were going to Ronnie’s party with the guys.”

           He leaned in closer to me, his shoulder against mine, our sides practically touching, and reached over to push a lock of hair that had fallen in front of my eyes behind my ear, his cool fingers just the feather of a touch against my warm skin as he brushed them along my cheek afterwards. “I wanted to spend the night with you instead,” he explained, rather softly, and I couldn’t have looked away had I wanted to. “If that’s all right with you.”

         For a moment, as I stared at him, seeing for the first time that his feelings were a little more than just friendly, I forgot how to breathe. I licked my lips, trying to say something, but nothing more than a small, pitchy sound came out. So instead of telling him how much more than “all right” it was with me, I merely nodded my head.

         “Does that mean you’ll join me for dinner?” he asked, and ran his fingers through my pin-straight hair, which in turn provoked chills to run down my spine, “And maybe a movie afterwards? A little birdie told me the theater is showing The Notebook tonight.”

          I grinned, thrilled beyond belief that he had not only just asked me out but also remembered my all time favorite film and offered to see it with me. “You mean,” I said, a little breathlessly, still trying to believe that this was actually happening, “kind of like a date? Just the two of us?”

           Chuckling, he nodded his head and dropped his hand to pull mine into it, entwined our fingers together. “There’s no ‘kind of’ about it Reina,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’m asking you out on a date, just the two of us. And I’d love if it you said yes.”

            His smile was enough to banish all other thoughts, reeling me in before I even had the chance to second guess anything. So, as he laced and unlaced our fingers together, his body so close that I could feel his warmth surround me, I leaned forward, ran my fingers through his hair, and whispered in his ear, “I’d love to go out with you, Gav.”

                     

Gavin was still watching me with wide eyes, his breath coming out in short but measured gasps, one hand still reaching out to me, offering to make things right, when I stepped out of the memory. But in that moment, I knew I couldn’t let him win. I had already lost so much already; I wasn’t about to let him weasel his way back into my life, just so that he could end up hurting me again when he got tired of us.

            And so, going against nearly every nerve in my body that was telling me to give him just one little explanation, one little chance, I looked straight into his eyes, holding back a waterfall of tears, and told him in a shaky, breathless voice, “I’m sorry, Gavin, but I-I can’t. I’m done.” My lip trembled, while my heart plummeted into my stomach, my resolve falling apart with each ragged breath I took. Gavin shook his head, stepping closer, but I matched his steps, my hand pressed against my stomach to keep myself from hurling its contents onto the floor. “Please just go back to your exhilarating life in the city, far away from here. I don’t want to ever see you again.” The words left me feeling empty and hollow as they tumbled from my lips, and I immediately wanted to take them back.

           “You don’t mean that,” Gavin said, trying to smile, to shrug it off as nothing.

           I can’t do this, I thought, swallowing the bile that had risen in my throat at the thought of what I was about to do. I can’t do this to him. Not without even giving him a chance to explain. But that was a lie. I could do it; and I would do it. Because if I didn’t, and instead granted him permission into my life again (which I could only imagine he’d take advantage of), I’d never forgive myself.   

           “I do,” I insisted. “I mean every word.” The defeated look in his eyes told me he actually was starting to believe me. And it cut deeper than any knife ever could, ripping me apart from the inside, out. “I may have once longed for you to return, longed to see you again . . . but now all I want is for you to leave. Me. Alone.”

     Then, without giving it another thought, ignoring the look of utter defeat and desperation on his face, I barreled past him, into the crowds of people that provided an obstacle to overcome. Wiping the tears that were now cascading down my cheeks, like a waterfall, I cupped my hand—the one that wasn’t holding my nauseous stomach—over my mouth to muffle the sobs that rattled my chest, shaking my entire body, and ran all the way out the doors of the club, desperate for fresh air and solitude.

     Once I made it outside, crisp, cold air bit at my exposed skin, but I hardly noticed, too blurry-eyed and sick to my stomach to take into account anything but the erratic beat of my heart as it broke, all over again. I stumbled along the cement, searching blindly for a wall to support myself. When I finally found the wall of the dimly-lit alleyway on the right-side of the building, I felt my way along it a little ways before sinking against the bricks to the cold, dirty ground.

      Hysteric cries echoed off the walls as I curled up into a ball and sobbed, chest heaving, body shuddering, stomach twisting and reeling. I was winded—no, exhausted—by the fact that he’d come back, he’d actually come back for me. And maybe he hadn’t come back for me; maybe he had ulterior motives for returning, motives I had nothing to do with, and running into me here had been nothing but an accident, just a dark, cruel twist of fate, and everything he said had been nothing but another lie. But then that thought only had me wondering: what if fate had also played a part in our surprise collision? What if we were supposed to run into each other so that I could give him that second chance? But, being the broken, fragile mess that I was, I had screwed it all up?

       No, I told myself, shaking my head as another wave of nausea rolled over my stomach, I didn’t do anything wrong. Running away was the only way to settle things, the only way to get over him, once and for all. After all the sleepless nights he put me through, he didn’t deserve a second chance. I did the right thing by leaving him.

       Except, no matter how many times I repeated those words in my head, there was still a part of me that didn’t believe them. Because despite how badly he had hurt me in the past, the fact that he had even come back at all had wondering if it hadn’t all been a lie, if he really had fallen as madly in love with me as I had with him.

      The mere thought chilled me to the very core.

      Because if that truly was the case, I would never forgive myself for running. And even worse than that . . . he would probably never forgive me.  

      As I balled the material of my dress into a fist, grasping for something—anything—to hold onto, something that wouldn’t abandon me like he had, I completely lost it. My heart yearned for him, while all my thoughts collided with one another in my mind, overwhelming me to the point I couldn’t even place where I was, what was happening. I just sat there and lost myself, tears blurring my vision like pouring rain on a windshield, tormented cries breaking the otherwise silent night. “Gavin,” I gasped, clenching my hand over my heart as a pang of pain—unlike any I had ever felt before—attacked my nerves. “What happened to us?”  

      And that was when I felt it. I felt an overwhelming dawn of realization grasp a hold of my thoughts, piecing them back together, and I knew what I had to do. I knew what I had to try, even if it left me entirely exposed in the end, with nothing but the haunted memories of a summer romance that had ended because neither of us were willing to admit how terrified we had been—how terrified we still were.

      But before I could pull myself together enough to go through with anything, I heard, fading in and out with the droning in my ears, heavy footsteps clapping against the pavement, approaching me. Then, as I scrambled to put myself back together—swiping the tears from my face, along with a good-sized amount of make-up, including globs of mascara that I could only imagine meant I now resembled that of a frazzled raccoon, and inhaling deep, calming breaths—a familiar voice penetrated the stillness of the night’s bitter air. “Reina?” Hearing my name uttered in such a dark alley, so late into the night, under the circumstances, churned my stomach with unease. Especially considering the voice it belonged to. “Is that you, Reina?”  

      Well, this could surely complicate things. 

4 ♡

 

Cold seeped into my skin, ice coursing through my bloodstream as I caught a glimpse of the boy who now stood at the nose of the alley, silhouetted by the street lamps glowing behind him. With my hands wrapped around my arms in a vain attempt at shielding them from the chill, I bit my lip, swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Mark?" I whispered, trying to keep the anxiety out of my straggled voice. "What are you doing out here?"
  He stepped—or, more accurately put, stumbled—further into the alley, his sneaker-clad feet thudding along the pavement, the sound echoing off the tall walls surrounding us. "I could ask you the same thing," he said, his words slurred, voice unnecessarily loud. Then he held up a cigarette between his fingers. "Came out for a smoke."
   "M-Me, too," I mumbled, and then chided myself for even thinking such a stupid lie up in the first place. Everyone knew I didn't smoke. Nor did I appreciate being surrounded by it. "Just started," I added, trying to sound more convincing, as I slowly, cautiously pulled myself into a standing position. Despite the fact that my heart was now beating a mile a minute, mirroring the pounding bass that projected from the club, nearly shaking the entire building, I tried to keep up a calm front, well-aware that if I tried to dash away in a hurry, I’d risk getting stopped by the obliviously trashed boy guarding my only exit, who just so happened to have a track-record for doing some fairly messed up things while intoxicated.

   Now that he was only a few feet away and I could see his face, I noticed the clouded over look in his eyes, along with the disbelief that flashed behind those incredibly dark irises. He narrowed his eyebrows, his very confused little mind most likely trying to process whether or not he should actually believe me. “You serious?” I nodded, nibbling on my bottom lip to keep myself from letting out a spurt of nervous laughter. “Mind if I join you then?”

   Even though I had very little interest in spending even one more moment with Mark Ivan—captain of the football team and an all-around player—I wasn't about to object, afraid of what a guy like him, who was easily twice my size, with broad shoulders and a short temper, could do to me. So instead, I merely shrugged my trembling shoulders and wiped my fingers under my eyes again, sniffling.   Leaning against the wall beside me, he popped the cigarette into his mouth and pulled out a lighter, brought it to the tip. "So," he said, lighting it up, "what's a pretty girl like you really doing out here all alone, in the freezing cold?" I shivered, almost as if the mere mention of the cold weather made it all that much more freezing, and before I knew it, he was shrugging out of his football jersey and draping it over my shoulders. "There," he said, with a sloppy, sluggish grin on his face. I tried to object, reaching for the material, but he covered my small hands with his own, trapping them there for a moment, his body unnecessarily close to mine, breath on my face, and I felt my heart stumble a bit. "Don’t. You need it more than I do. Trust me."

   “But I—”

   He pressed a finger against my lips, shaking his head. “Trust me.”

 Swallowing the urge to bite his finger and try to make my escape, I nodded my head in submission, stiffly. “Okay,” I breathed, when he removed his finger and returned to his place on the wall, trying to hide how badly I was shaking.

  “Now.” He tapped the cigarette in his fingers, embers raining onto the ground, as he blew out a large puff of smoke. “Wanna tell me why you're all alone? Where are your friends?”

   "Inside," I muttered, busying myself with my dress, brushing off any dirt that had managed to soil it. As I straightened back up, feeling Mark's gaze burning a hole into my back, I was struck with the realization that they were my out. They were the only way I could get out of this without coming off as rude or suspicious. "Which reminds me," I said, pulling off his jacket and handing it to him, "I should probably get back to them. They'll be wondering where I went." 

   Forcing a smile, I glanced up at his face, suddenly well-aware of the dark, lustful look burning behind the redness of his eyes. "Wait," he said, voice gruff, and pushed himself off the wall, tossing the cigarette on the ground where his shoe then squished it into the damp pavement. "Don't go. They're probably busy." The closer he pushed himself towards me, the further I stepped back, my heart in my throat as a rock formed in my stomach, fear grasping a painful hold of my lungs. "Why don't you stay here with me instead? I'll show you a good time." A sluggish half-smile crawled up his lips, while his gaze traveled from the bottom of my dress, up. 

  That was when I felt it. The cold, damp surface of the opposite building's—an abandoned warehouse, in the early stages of becoming a storage unit for the apartments next to it—stone wall. My breath caught in my throat as I realized he was cornering me, all alone, in the alley of a building whose residents would have no clue what was going on behind its walls, no matter how desperately I tried to make our presence known. Scrambling to gain my bearings, I tried to duck away from him, but his hand shot out and stopped me in my tracks. "Mark, I—"

   Before I had time to blink (much less object), he had his other hand—the one not blocking my only exit—pressed against my waist, pinning me in place between him and the wall, and his lips crushed against mine, hard and unrelenting. I could feel his hand leaving a bruise as it squeezed my small waist; feel his aggression only intensify the more I squirmed against him. My heartbeat pulsed in my ears, my face hot, while the rest of my body shuddered with chills as he practically devoured me. I tried to scream, tried to wiggle out of his captivity, my small hands beating against chest and shoulders as he pressed himself tighter against me, but my voice was lost in his mouth and the fight was slowly dying inside of me, defused my his immovable strength, even in his intoxicated state. 

   He pulled away for a moment, and I gasped for air, trying in vain to duck beneath his arm while I could, clawing blindly at him as my vision blurred with tears I hadn't even noticed I was shedding. But I didn't get very far. "Stop fighting this, Reina," he growled under his breath, grabbing both my wrists in the hand he'd had propped up against the wall and pinning them above my head. "I'm just trying to show you a good time. Learn to enjoy it, now." The vile taste of his tongue, bathed in cigarette smoke and alcohol as it had tangled with my own, swam in my mouth, overwhelming me with the urge to hurl the contents of my stomach right onto the ground we stood on. Unfortunately, nothing came out, despite the way my stomach churned with acid and disgust. 

   "Let go of me!" I tried to buck my wrists out of his grip but it was no use: he had the strength of ten men compared to me. "Please, Mark, I just want to go inside," I sobbed, as he ran his hand up under my dress, his touch leaving shards of ice along the tender skin of my thighs, and tried to inflict some sort of discomfort on him with my feet, kicking at him.

    Unfortunately he had me wrestled against the ground before I could manage anything. 

   "You really are beautiful," he said, pushing a tendril of hair out of my face with the hand that wasn't holding my wrists above my head. "I've wanted you since the day I first laid eyes on you." His frozen fingers brushed against my skin, which then caused my entire body to shiver, shuddering under his body. He straddled my hips, the heaviness of his body crushing me. 

   To say I was terrified and uncomfortable would have been an understatement.

  "Mark," I choked out, swallowing around the lump of fear in my throat, "don't do this. Please don't do this." His eyes were filled with lust and desire, dark and haunting. I tried to ignore the way he let his fingers trace over the skin of my face, my neck, tried to ignore the way he was somehow turned on by all of this. My voice was filled with desperation as I straggled out, feeling his hand flush against my chest, "I-I'll tell everyone." 

   I squeezed my eyes shut as an unwelcome pang of pain blossomed underneath his hand. "You won't," he hissed, grabbing my face in his hand and glaring at me. "You won't tell anyone about this if you know what's best for you." He let go of my face, bending down to press his lips against my neck instead. A straggled scream launched out of my throat, the sound echoing across the dark night sky, as he bit the tender skin. "Besides." His breath was hot and heavy as he whisper-added into my ear, "No one would believe you anyways."   

   Thinking it was my the only chance at escape left, I bucked against him with every last remaining ounce of strength I had left and cried, "HELP! Somebody help me! Please!" 

  Mark, seemingly having had enough of my objections, slapped me hard across the cheek, cupped his hand over my mouth, and managed to flip me onto my stomach, covering my body with his own. His knees dug into my sides, while his fingers fumbled with the zipper of my dress. I whimpered, now defenseless against him, and about to face something I was not at all ready for. I tried to cry for help again, but it was only muffled under his hand, as dirt seeped into my pores and tiny pebbles dug into my cheek. My body ached from the pressure of his body weighing down on mine, my heart pounded against my chest, the pulse throbbing at my sure to be bruised wrists, and I could hardly breathe, trapped against the ground with very limited air. When he finally removed his hand from my mouth, I gasped for air, coughing and gagging as dust swept into my throat, choking me. 

  I couldn't tell you why, but as his greedy, filthy hands ran up and down my body, violating me, all I could think about was Gavin. When I closed my eyes, trying to vanish myself from the moment at hand, he was all I saw, all I knew. I didn't hear the sound of my dress tearing as Mark's impatience grew, didn't feel his lips hungrily pressing down on the exposed skin of my back, didn't even hear my own sobs trembling from my lips as he broke me, all over again. 

   If only I hadn't let my fear of second chances bring me out here in the first place, I thought, clawing my hands against the ground in a desperate, last ditch effort to get away, even though I knew it was impossible with Mark's weight on me. "Stop," I muttered, breathless, tears staining my cheeks. "Gavin, please." Help me.

  I hadn't a clue what triggered me to say Gavin's name—whether it was the fact that I couldn't get him out of my head or if it was just because I was in a state of panic and he was the only thing I wanted—but, nevertheless, it seemed to stop Mark in his tracks. Frozen, hands gripping the material of my dress, he asked, in a dark voice, "What did you just say?" 

  I couldn't tell whether he was angry or not, but, deciding it was better not to give him a reason to be more upset than he already was at me, I mumbled, "Stop. I said stop." 

  "No." He pulled on my hair, my chin scraping against the ground as he did so, and I let out a small, high pitched yelp. "After that." 

  With tears rolling down my cheeks, I bit my lip and tried to ignore the pain that pierced my skull as he tugged harder on my hair. "Gavin," I choked out, fumbling to get his hand out of my hair. "I said Gavin." 

  "He's back?" Releasing my hair (which in turn caused me to knock my chin on the pavement, a small crack! sound echoing in my ears), he brushed his hand down my arm, flipped me back onto my back. His eyes were as black as the midnight sky above us as his gaze burned into mine, his breath coming out in short, heavy pants, and I could hear the disgust in his voice. He and Gavin might have played on the same team a year ago, but they had never been bros. Not once. "Did you see him?" 

   I planned on lying to him, covering the misstep as nothing but a misunderstanding, a word uttered in a time of weakness. Before I could say anything, though, a thump, thump, thump sound echoed along the walls of the alleyway, resembling that of footsteps approaching, and a voice, so tantalizingly familiar, punctured the balloon of fear I'd found myself in. Replacing it with a slim ribbon of hope, my nerves deflating just as easily as the balloon. "She sure did, you asshole." 

   Mark jumped at the sound of Gavin's voice, his glazed over eyes going wide, mouth dropping open as he turned to face the boy who was making his way over to us with haste, jaw set, eyes narrowed to slits. I took advantage of his stunned state, wiggling my way out from underneath him, considering the fact that—in his own surprise—he'd shot up enough so that my hips were no longer pinned beneath him. "Gavin!" I cried, my voice straggled as I stumbled to get back onto my feet, legs shaking from lack of usage and frayed nerves. "Gavin, thank goodness you're—"

  A scream ripped out of my throat as Mark's hand latched a hold of my ankle, pulling be back towards him in one swift motion. My hands clawed at the ground, trying in vain to pull myself back away from him.

   But that was when all hell broke loose. 

  Everything happened so quickly, filled with so much frustration and aggression, I couldn't even begin to wrap my mind around it all. One moment, Mark was above me again, grabbing at my dress and yelling at me to stay put; but in the next, he was gone, thrown against the wall by a very angry, very appalled looking Gavin, who was yelling things like "Don't you ever lay a hand on her again!" and "I swear on my great grandmother's grave I'll make your life a living hell!" in his face. Then there was a lot of wrestling, cursing, and fists flying as I scrambled back on my bum, hands searching feebly for the wall so that I could use it as support to get back onto my feet. My heart was racing from the new worry running through the back of my frazzled mind: that Gavin would get seriously injured. And that was the last thing I wanted to happen.

  Finally managing to get back onto my feet, I watched in horror and—if I was being completely honest—amazement as Gavin slammed his fist into Mark's face, which then landed him on the ground, holding his jaw and sputtering out a puddle of blood onto the pavement. A chill ran down my spine, seeing my assaulter broken and defeated in a heap on the cold, dirty ground. Still in a state of shock and horror, I stumbled over to Gavin, my hand cupped over my mouth, stomach churning from not only the scene before me and memories of the night but also the metallic stench of blood that wafted around the freezing air.

   Before I could stop him, Gavin slammed his foot into Mark's chest, toppling him over, his hands clenched into fists at his side. "Don't touch her," he bellowed, spitting on the boy cowering below him, "you hear? If I ever catch you even looking at her the wrong way, I swear to God I'll kill you, Mark. I swear." His voice caught on the last word, and he wiped his hand across his face, his chest rising and falling as if he had just run a marathon. Or—in this case—nearly beat the snot out of a football player who attacked me. "I mean, what the hell were you even thinking? I could send you to jail for what you just"—he swallowed hard, shaking his head—"tried to do, Mark. Don't think for a second I couldn't." 

   "Dude," Mark muttered, as more blood dribbled down his chin, "I'm sorry. I'll never make the same mistake again. I swear." He may have been glaring at Gavin, holding his stomach like he was about to hurl, but I could see the fear burning behind those dark eyes of his. He believed Gavin, without a doubt. And he knew not to cross anymore lines—especially not any that involved the Sheriff's son and his ex-girlfriend. 

  "I'm not the one you should be apologizing to," Gavin said coldly, turning in my direction. He pointed a shaky (possibly injured) finger at me, gaze softening as he took in my appearance—which must have been bad, considering the fact that my dress was practically falling off of me, one side revealing the strapless black-lace bra Lila had pressured me into wearing ("Just in case you run into any hot guys and things get a little heated," she'd explained in a hushed voice as she handed me the lingerie while I sat on my bed, fresh out of the shower and wrapped in a fluffy white towel, and flashed me a coy wink), while the rest of my body was covered in dirt and grime, my makeup smeared all over my face—and added, in a softer voice than before, "She is."    

   Despite the circumstances, my heart missed a beat from the way he was looking at me, gaze filled with such protectiveness, such devotion, such love it was impossible to ignore. I froze in place, still trying to catch my breath, tucking a strand of tangled, dirty blonde hair behind my ear. Shivering from the intensity of both the boys' gazes and the chilly breeze that billowed down the dark alley, I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly very aware of what little attire I was actually wearing. "Gavin," I breathed, teeth-chattering, body trembling in the aftermath of it all, unsure of what else I should—or could—say. 

   Mark wobbled back onto his feet, this time moving towards the exit, as Gavin returned to watching him like a hawk, one hand clenched into a fist at his side again while he shoved the other into his pocket, only ready to strike if necessary. "Reina," Mark said, brows furrowing together as he grimaced in pain, "I'm really, really sorry. It'll never happen again. I swear."

   There was no way I could possibly forgive him just yet for what he had done—and tried to do—to me, no way I could shrug it off as if nothing happened and trust that he would never try it again. It was all just too soon and too complicated, and I was still trying to work out the jumbled up mess this night had spiraled into. But with his apology ringing in my ears—and having absolutely no desire to watch another fight break out—I nodded, very slowly, and mumbled a broken, "It's okay." (Even though we all—with the exception of the intoxicated pervert who appeared to be moments away from emptying the contents of his stomach all over the bushes just outside the building next-door—knew it was far from the truth.)

   A heavy silence settled over us, as no more words were exchanged. 

  Mark was already half-running, half-stumbling down the nose of the alley, keeled over, when I felt something brush against my arm. I jumped, startled, an image of Mark's lust-filled gaze flashing across the back of my mind. And for a moment, I could still feel his hands exploring my body, as if it wasn't just a memory, but actually happening . . . right here, and right now. But then the images were gone, along with his repulsive touch, and it was just Gavin and me, his hand unbelievably warm against my own frozen skin.

  "Reina?" He called my name softly, as if not to frighten me, and, in turn, I cautiously tilted my head up to meet his gaze. That was when I noticed the small, swollen bruise on his left cheekbone. "I am so, so sorry, Reina. I should have come looking for you earlier."

  Tears sprang into my eyes at the tormented look on his face, his gaze haunted, lower lip trembling. My heart ached, seeing him so torn up, feeling responsible for the defeated look in his eyes. After all, I had been the one to first push him away, I had been the stubborn one who just couldn't admit that she was afraid, and I had been the one who ran off, all alone, into an alley where unspeakable things were bound to happen. 

   I was responsible for all of this mess. No one else. 

  And I tried to tell him just that, tried to assure him that (this time) he had done nothing wrong. But before I could, his face crumpled even more—if that was even possible—and he let out a long, shaky breath, ran a hand through his hair, and crushed me into his arms. "Jeez, Reina, I was scared to death," he whispered, his voice just as defeated as his expression. "When I couldn't find you inside, and then heard you scream for help, I thought I was going to lose you, forever. And then I saw Mark . . . abusing you . . ." He trailed off, swallowing hard, and I could feel his fear and disgust as if it was my own. "I had never been more afraid in my life, Reina. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you like that. If I lost you, period. " 

   A sob tumbled from my lips, as those words haunted me, shattering any frail resolve I was still hanging onto. "Gav," I breathed, hugging him back with all the strength I had left in me, as if my life depended on it, "you saved me. You saved me from that monster." My thoughts were all jumbled up again as I tried to piece together what I really wanted to say to him. He shuddered, and I realized he was crying, too, unraveling right before my eyes, in my arms. With that realization, came another. And before I could stop myself, words were spilling out of my mouth in a rush, filling the space between us. "I'm sorry, Gavin. So, so sorry. I never should have lied to you. Or pushed you away. Or pretended to be okay with things when really I was scared out of my mind. I never should have hurt you like that. And I'm just so, so sorry." Nuzzling my face in the warmth his chest provided, I tried to banish any bitterness or ill-thoughts provided by the memory of his departure, living in the moment, nothing else.

   And in that moment, while we held onto each other in the bitter cold, our hearts beating in time with one another, our fears (or at least a few of them) exposed for what they truly were, our worlds finally colliding as one again, there was nothing I wanted more than to just stay with him, one moment more.  

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity but had, in reality, only been a few minutes, Gavin cleared his throat, planted a gentle kiss on my head. "It's okay," he said, hushing me, as he rubbed slow, soothing circles on my back. "It's okay, Reina. We've both made mistakes. But you can't blame yourself for our falling out. That was all me." He pulled away, hands at my waist, and I had to bite back the urge to wince as they covered the bruises there. Then his blue eyes found mine, crystallized with stray tears, and I felt an overwhelming surge of warmth flood through me, despite the mid-February weather. "I was the one who left. I was the one who ignored you. I was the one who was a cowardly idiot."

   "Don't forget an ass," I cut in, just to try to lighten the mood a little.

  He chuckled, but his eyes were still very serious. "And an ass," he agreed, shaking his head a little. "What I'm trying to say, though, is . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry for lying to you and leaving you with false hopes. I'm sorry for being such a selfish, cowardly lion. And most of all, I'm sorry it took me this long to finally realize just how desperately I want you. Just how much I can't live without you."     

   Even though I wasn't sure if I should believe what he was saying or not, I couldn't help but smile at the thought that he really had missed me, he really did—and still does—care about me. He'd just made a mistake. A mistake he'd admitted to. A mistake I could forgive, no matter how greatly it'd left me torn apart and scarred. Because, as my great uncle had always said, "Everyone deserves a second chance, kiddo." 

   "I know," was all I told Gavin, though, with a more-or-less genuine smile on my face. But that was all that truly needed to be spoken aloud. After all, we'd always had our own special language, and even now—after months of separation—I still knew that he knew exactly what I meant. No words were left unspoken between us. Not even the most obvious ones: I forgive you, Gavin. And I, too, want you. Desperately. "Just don't screw things up this time. Okay?" 

  Grinning at me, Gavin shrugged, as if it was no big deal. "Okay," he said, as I shivered from another cool breeze that blew into the alleyway as the late night's temperature dropped even further.  He must have noticed, because before I knew it, he was slipping out of his leather jacket and draping it over my shoulders, saying, "You're freezing." By the way that he said it, you would have thought he hadn't noticed up until that very moment that yes, in fact, I was a bit (insert sarcasm here) cold. 

   Biting back the urge to scoff at his fantastic (again, sarcasm) observance skills, I accepted his jacket with ease, slipping into it and sighing as an instant blanket of warmth covered me. My legs were still cold, but at least I would be able to feel my arms and hands again, with time. "Thanks, Gav," I said, and flashed him a smile. "For everything."

   He nodded in reply, returning my smile, something I'd grown accustomed to in the past few years I'd gotten to know him. He had never been a fan of the phrase you're welcome or anything along the same lines. So instead, he made up his own language for that, too. And if I was being completely honest, it was just one of the hundreds of other quirks I loved about him.

   Bending down to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, he ran his fingers through my hair, pushed a fallen strand of it behind my ear. (Just another thing he often did that I adored.) "Let's get out of here," he whispered in my ear, and I tensed up for a second, feeling his breath on my face, remembering the way Mark whispered things into my ear, against my skin. "You could probably use a warm bath. And I have hot chocolate—with those little, bite-sized marshmallows you used to love. It'll help you relax." His smile was so genuine, so inviting, it was impossible to refuse his offer. Even if I could risk being hurt in the end by doing so. "And we've got a lot of catching up to do."

   This was it. My last chance to run away. All I had to do was turn down his offer, find my way home, and close off all ties to him forever, pretending he didn't exist. 

   But I couldn't do that. Not now. Not after all the tears and confessions and fights. Not when I had already decided to give him a second chance, whether he had earned it or not—which, in my heart, I believed he had.  

  And not to mention there was something about him, something warm and familiar and comfortable, that I just couldn't let go of, couldn't ignore. Something beyond his good looks and loving gaze that made it impossible not to go running back into his arms as if the past was nothing but the past, and falling ever-so-helplessly in love all over again. 

   So, choosing to allow myself to fall under his spell (once again), I pulled his hand into mine, entwined our frozen fingers together, looked deep into those captivating blue eyes, and said, "I'd love to get out of here with you. Your place or mine?" 

   "Wasn't that pretty obvious?" he countered, flashing me a wink. 

  I bit my lip, feeling heat spread up my cheeks, and tried not to smile too widely as I whispered, "Yours it is." 

  Desperately hoping I wouldn't regret this later. 

 

Impressum

Texte: All Rights Reserved, Stephanie Jane, 2013. Do not copy, steal, or re-post elsewhere. Thank you for your cooperation. :)
Bildmaterialien: Google images
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.06.2013

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