STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

I read back through what I’ve written, attach the file to my email, and stare at the screen for a minute.

So, this is it, Carson, I think, looking at his email address and trying to picture his eyes. I’m sorry about everything. I hope someday you believe me that I didn’t really write that article. That I didn’t know I was a plant— but that I’m glad I was, in some ways, because otherwise we wouldn’t have met. That I know you’re a good person, and I hope you’re able to get through your father’s case no matter how it turns out.

I consider typing all that up, but instead I just write “this is the last one” in the subject line, and send it off.

Two days later, I’m walking to one of my last classes of the semester through the strangely sharp cold that has taken over campus. It’s the sort of weather that leaves you endlessly sniffling as you duck between overheated buildings and dry winter air. I hug my scarf around my neck and keep my head down, breathing into the material at my collar to warm my cheeks. Students mill past, everyone as eager to get into their warm classrooms as I am.

Thankfully, the buzz over the article has died down enough that the other students don’t part around me like I’m some sort of leper anymore.

The MassComm building is just ahead; soon, all my classes will be on the other side of campus, in the English and comparative lit building, which is older, mustier, and a thousand times cooler. Someone falls into step just behind me, and I slide over to the side of the sidewalk to let them pass. They don’t, though; they speed up only enough to start walking just beside me, closing in way too tightly on my personal space. I don’t want to stare, but they keep up the pace long enough that I glance up to get a look at the person with no sense of boundary.

It’s Carson.

I feel the breath empty out of my lungs in a whoosh.

I stop short on the sidewalk— so short that the person behind me knocks into me, and I pitch forward. Carson is fast; his hands jump out and he steadies me before I tumble to the ground. Confused and shaken by his presence and nearly busting my face, I wobbly step off the sidewalk and into the grass to avoid blocking more foot traffic. Carson is smiling, though the smile is small and a little sad.

“Hey,” he greets me, pulling his hands back now that I’ve caught my balance.

“Hi,” I say, sniffing, staring up at him through cold-watery eyes. “I—uh…hi.” Has he always been this beautiful? Of course. Though remembering the flawlessly carved cheekbones and seeing them again in person, at such a close distance, are two very different things. I remember how his jawbone felt against my neck, against my chest—

“I’ve been reading your emails,” he says calmly. “I thought we should talk about them.”

My eyes widen. I was so sure he’d been deleting them. Class change is almost over; the sidewalks are now just a smattering of late students jogging the last few yards to their buildings. “Okay,” I say, swallowing. I can’t read his expression— is he irritated by them? Happy? Angry? I have no idea, and it’s killing me.

“I owe you an apology,” Carson says, sincerity in every word. “I’m not— what happened was a disaster for me. On and off the field. But…I blamed you. And it wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m so sorry—“

“Hang on,” Carson says gently. “I’m almost done. I was stressed out and angry, and instead of taking the time to listen to you and think rationally about it all, I shut down and shut you out. That only made things worse, because if anyone could have helped me get through everything, it was you. So then I was angry because I didn’t have you, and…well. It was a mess.”

My eyes are watering more, now, but it’s not from the cold— hot tears are welling in them, and when they fall they leave raw streaks down my cold cheeks. Carson hesitates, then reaches forward and brushes a few of them away. My eyes drift shut; his hand is warm and smells of him, and before I can stop it I lean my cheek into his palm. When he strokes my skin with his thumb, I shudder in relief and happiness and from the knot in my stomach— the knot that’s been there since the article ran— finally unties.

“Astrid…I want you back. If you’ll forgive me for being such a dick to you,” he says, voice low.

“Do you forgive me for the article?” I ask meekly, opening my eyes and looking up at him. His are glittering and dark and perfect.