S: I need to talk to her.
G: She’s not here. I don’t know where she is.
If she’s really not in her room, then I suspect I know where to find her. I detour from my dorm and head across campus. My phone buzzes again as I walk toward the dining hall.
G: Stop poking, Bass.
Yeah, that’s like asking a dog to leave a bone.
G: She doesn’t need your shit.
Sugar may not need my shit, but she wants it, just as much as I want hers.
Or fuck it—I need her. Whatever this thing is always pulling me toward her, I’m not going to cast it aside. It’s not in my nature. I tuck the phone away and walk around the side of the brick building. Sure enough, in the faint light of the sunset, Sugar sits on the stump, quietly trying to coax the cats to come to her.
I hang back for a minute, watching her interact with the cats. There’s a bag of treats hanging in the hammock of her plaid skirt. Lucy, the most at ease, eats a treat right out of her fingers, while Abby circles closer and closer. Even Hades has made his way near, sniffing around the treats she’s tossed in the grass. The longer I watch, the more it starts to click. Patience. Building trust. Letting them take the lead.
Abby’s getting a little closer now. I’m watching the way the light is playing against the soft curves of Sugar’s lips when they slowly quirk, a small half-smile slanting her mouth. I thought she wore sharp fury well, but this—a small, secret thread of happiness brightening her face—is what she should always look like.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
I take a deep breath, trying to settle this itch to go and do and have, and stride across the grass. The cats see me first, Hades jumping back a few feet and running to the closest bush. Abby starts in my direction, undoubtedly hoping for a can of food. Sugar looks up, startled, the smile instantly twisting into the hard, flat line of a grimace.
By the time I’m a few feet away, the cats have scattered, and Sugar is standing, looping her backpack over her shoulders.
We stare at each other for a bit. Too long. Desperate for something to do, I take my pack of cigarettes from my pocket and light one, tossing the pack over the distance between us.
Just like last time, she catches it easily, regarding it with a blank stare. Reluctantly, she lights her own.
“So,” I start, but she just shakes her head.
“Yesterday was my fault. I don’t even know how to explain my behavior, or what the hell even…” she searches for the words and lands on, “I don’t know what came over me, but it was my fault. It never should have happened.”
“I disagree,” I tell her, blowing a stream of smoke from the side of my mouth. “I think it was awesome, and I want it to happen again. Preferably pantsless, but, you know. However I can get it, count me in.”
Her cheeks turn pink and she ducks her head, eyes fixed to the toes of her boots. “It can’t.”
I force my feet to stay where they are, shoving a fist deep into my pocket. “But what if it can?”
Emotion flickers across her face and it’s too much—too fast—to catalogue it all, but there’s definitely conflict. Irritation. And if I’m not mistaken, sadness. “Trust me, Bass.” So softly that it’s almost a whisper, she says, “If I could, I would.”
My insides clench and I replay her words in my head to make sure I heard them right. “You would?” I clarify.
“Yeah.” She says this like it’s something grim and sad, but when her eyes flick up to mine, all I see is loss. “I think so.”
It takes everything, every ounce of strength and impulse control I have, not to lunge at her and take. If any other girl gave me a green light like that, no matter how muted, I’d be all over them. All. Fucking. Over. But I count in my head, mentally chanting ‘patience, trust, control’ over and over. When I feel like I’ve got it together, I ask, “What would it take to get you to trust me? To let me prove myself to you? To get another kiss like that?”
Her laugh is bitter, laced with the smoke that swirls around her head. “A fucking miracle, Wilcox.”
In an effort to lighten the mood, I try, “Well, I have been known to make a few girls feel like they’re walking on water.” She rolls her eyes, but I see it. It’s happening. Her lips curve just slightly, a small, exasperated smile that makes my chest feel utterly weightless. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like to be touched, you’re pretty good at it yourself.”
The smile disappears. “That’s different.”
“How?”
She shrugs, flicking her cigarette and watching the ashes tumble to the ground. “Because it just is.”
I want to know why, although I think I already do. It’s got to be a control thing. She wants it—maybe even needs it—and this is something neither she nor Reyn really get about me. They think I can’t handle not being in control—that I can’t hold back—but they’re wrong. I’ve held back for way lesser people than the girl currently standing across from of me.