These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

Something crazy and completely irrelevant in this moment.

That in all the times that I’ve come into his office, I’ve never sat in a chair. I always either stood by one or stood by the wall. The wall where he made me read my letters to him.

The letters that I now know he keeps tucked away at the bottom of his dresser at home.

I remember smiling when I found them one day while looking for one of his t-shirts to wear. Along with that sketch that I’d made of him. That he’d insisted on keeping.

Oh and my pink panties, the ones I wore the first night we had sex.

When I asked him about it he told me – very grumpily and cryptically – that he was keeping them safe from pervs.

It’s weird, this abrupt realization, and it makes me more panicked for some reason.

“Did you talk to your parents?” he asks, his shoulders rigid, fingers threaded together on his desk. “About art school.”

I swallow, my own hands in my lap, fingers laced together. “Yes.”

“And?”

“They’re not happy about it. Which is expected. My dad threatened to have the offer rescinded. But I told him that I’d apply to a different school. That I’d keep applying everywhere until I got in and even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter because I’d still be an artist. Besides, they can’t legally stop me. I’m eighteen, so.”

I study the play of emotions on his face at this.

First comes anger and irritation at my parents’ behavior, which is swiftly replaced by satisfaction and pride as he says, “Good girl.”

Again it’s so familiar, his tone and his expressions, so warm in this world that has suddenly turned cold, that I go to the edge of my seat and say, “Conrad, please. Tell me what —”

“I think we should stop.”

“What?”

All the familiar expressions, all the familiar warmth is gone from his face. He’s back to being aloof. He’s back to being all professional and distant like he used to be as he says, “I think it’s time we stopped.”

“Stopped what?”

His denim blue eyes move across my face and I don’t even care that I must look like an anxious mess right now. “It’s over, Bronwyn.”

It’s only three words.

And one of them is my name.

So it should be easy to understand. It should be easy to grasp what he’s saying to me.

But it’s not.

So I go, “I beg your p-pardon.”

I’m not sure why I’ve said it in that way.

I never say it. I never say ‘I beg your pardon.’

But maybe it’s his… harshness. His coldness that has prompted me to be more polite than I usually am. Just like his thorn sharpness that makes me go flower soft.

His nostrils flare then. As if he gets it.

As if he understands this strange, intimate dynamic between us.

A dynamic that no one else will ever get.

It’s ours.

Then, “It never should’ve started in the first place. You already had a crush on me and I never should’ve done what I did. I should’ve known better. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve —”

My hands fly over to his desk and grab onto the sharp edge of it. “But we’re past that now. I broke all your barriers. I got through to you and I’m not sure why we’re talking about this now. I don’t…”

His chest moves under his white t-shirt with a sharp sigh. “We’re talking about this now because it’s over. Because we need to stop, and I —”

“Is it because of what happened?” I blurt out then, my voice high and, I’m afraid, nasal. “Is it because we almost got caught? But it was just one time. And that was only because we broke our own rule. We’ve been so good. We’ve been so careful all this time. You can’t let one thing that happened ruin everything else.”

His hands are still on the desk, all laced together, calm and composed. “It’s not because of what happened. Because nothing happened. Because I’ll be damned if I’d ever let anything happen to you.”

“So then why are —”

“It’s because it’s time,” he states firmly.

“It’s time.”

A short nod. “Yes. As I said, it never should’ve started. But it did and it has gone on long enough. So I’ve decided to end it here before it’s too late.”

I dig my nails into the wood. “You’ve decided.”

“Yes.”

“And who gave you the right to decide anything?” I ask with clenched teeth. “Why was I not involved in the decision? It clearly affects us both.”

Silently, he stares at me with penetrating eyes.

And I swear to God if he says something condescending to me right now or refers to my age after everything that’s happened between us and everything that we’ve been through, I’m going to do something really drastic.

I’m going to do something that will alert the whole school, the whole town, the world that there’s something between us.