My Darling Arrow (St. Mary's Rebels 1)

I wait for him under my window.

At the spot where he smokes and at the spot where they were talking, him and her.

Sarah left a little while ago. I don’t know what she said to Leah, but she packed her bags and called a cab to the airport. Leah went to sleep then. She has to fly out for a conference early tomorrow morning and she said she’d take me back to St. Mary’s before she leaves.

Meaning my time’s almost up.

In the morning, I’ll go back to all the rules and schedules and structure. I’ll go back to detention and trigonometry and missing my bike.

I don’t care about that though. I wasn’t even expecting to get this much of a reprieve. Especially when I don’t have the privilege yet.

But he got me out.

He sprung me out of that concrete fence like I was a bird trapped in a cage. So I can’t sleep. I won’t.

I’m waiting for him.

My emancipator.

It feels like he’s been gone for ages. Chances are that he probably went back to his motel where he’s staying.

So he won’t be back.

But still, I wait.

Because for some reason, I think he’ll come. He’ll come back to the house. I’m not sure why I think that; there’s nothing here to bring him back. Sarah’s gone. He’s upset with his mother.

But I’m here and I’m his friend. And something tells me he’ll come back for me.

God, all this time. Why didn’t he say anything? About what Sarah did.

Why didn’t he…

A second later, I hear the roar of his motorcycle and my agitated thoughts disintegrate.

He’s back.

He’s back!

I’ve been sitting under the window on the cool autumn grass, my knees folded and hugged to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. I’ve been rocking back and forth with impatience but I freeze now.

I freeze at the sight of him in the driveway, sitting across his motorcycle.

His eyes on me. His brilliant blue eyes, that appear as dark as the night from this far, are glued to my curled-up form.

Like he knew I’d be here. I’d be waiting for him.

He’s right.

No matter the time, the season, the weather, I’ll always wait for him.

Without taking his eyes off me, he moves.

He leans forward, arcs his powerful thigh over the seat and gets off. As soon as he comes to stand, I spring up to my feet.

And when he starts to walk, I take off at a run.

My woolen-sock-covered feet thump on the ground as I race toward him and we meet somewhere in the middle of the backyard where I’ve watched him countless times from up above, through my window.

Although, meet is not how I’d describe the way I almost hurl my body at him.

Like I’m the bird zooming toward him that he let out of the cage, or maybe I’m not a bird at all. Maybe I’m a storm and he catches me with a wide stance and a solid body and I burrow myself in his chest.

I flatten my tiny body against his large one, my arms going around his waist and my cheek pressed against his ribs, right where his heart is.

His dead, darling heart.

I think I’ve shocked him. With my ferocity, with the strength I’m using to hug him, because he goes all stiff. But I don’t let him go.

I’ll never let him go. At least, not in my heart.

And maybe he knows that.

He knows that no matter what he can’t escape my hug so his body loses its rigidity and his arms come around me and cover my spine.

I squeeze him then, and clench my eyes shut against the onslaught of fat, thick tears. I don’t wanna cry. Not right now when I need to be strong.

When I need to be there for him.

“Where did you go?” I whisper.

His open palms move up and down my spine. “If I say I went to a bar, you’re not going to start acting like a jealous little groupie, are you?”

Chuckling sadly, I say, “I called you. I even texted. You never replied back.”

I did.

I dug up my old phone that Leah had given me when we moved in with her and Arrow. She’d also fed her and Arrow’s numbers into our cell phones.

Needless to say, I never used it, his number. I’d stare at it though, several times a day.

But I used it tonight.

It kind of felt weird, texting the guy I’ve been writing secret letters to. A clash of modern, cold technology with how I’ve come to love him.

In an old-fashioned way.

“So acting like a jealous groupie it is,” he murmurs.

“I was worried,” I whisper.

As soon as I say it, I press my forehead on his chest and open my mouth. My lips are right where his heart is and I breathe out large puffs of air as if I’m trying to resuscitate it.