“Are you okay?”
I felt the warmth of Tristan’s body as he stepped up behind me, the tickle of his breath on my neck. Instantly, my heart began to pound.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sending a shiver down my spine. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
I turned my head ever so slightly to the side. My breathing was shallow, my pulse skipping with him so near. “It’s okay.”
“I try not to question everything, because I know that what we’re doing here matters,” he said, his voice low.
I turned to face him, so fast that my braid brushed his bicep and our knees touched. I pressed myself back into the window, flattening the curtain behind me, but he didn’t even flinch.
“How?” I asked hopefully, looking into his eyes. “How do you know?”
His eyes roamed my face, flicking from my lips to my cheeks to my eyes to my hair. “We’re maintaining the balance of the universe,” he said. “There’s nothing that matters more.”
His eyelashes fluttered and he stared down at my mouth. My lips tingled and my fingers itched to reach out and grab his hand, his waist, his arm. I recalled the feeling of his thumb tracing my cheek last night, the way he’d held me close at the cove, how he’d looked into my eyes yesterday when he told me how strong I was. How beautiful. How true.
In a rush of bravery, I stood on my toes and pressed my lips against his. For a split second, everything was perfect. His soft lips, the heady scent of sea and salt in the room, the sound of the waves crashing outside the open window. But then Tristan abruptly pulled away. He flattened the back of his hand against his lips, his eyes wide. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized he hadn’t kissed me back.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” I stammered, flustered. “I didn’t—”
“No, I’m sorry,” he said, finally dropping his hand, an unreadable expression on his face. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression, Rory. I never meant to—”
This wasn’t happening. This was not happening. I slid along the window, moving away from him, mortified. The things he’d said…all the touching, the stares, the obvious tension between us…how could I have misread him so completely?
But clearly that was exactly what I’d done. Of course I had. I’d only ever kissed one guy before and he had most definitely kissed me first. Besides, Tristan was perfect. He was the Golden Boy. The guy everyone looked up to, the guy every other guy wanted to be, and probably the guy every girl wanted to be with. I bet he’d kissed hundreds of girls over the endless years of his existence. Maybe even thousands. I was just the latest pathetic, recently deceased loser to throw herself at him. And now I was going to have to live with this humiliation—this skin-searing humiliation—forever.
As he stared at me, I realized he was wishing he could be anywhere but here. I knew the feeling.
“Forget it,” I said quickly. “This never happened, okay? Let’s just pretend it never happened.”
I turned my back on him before he could see me break down for the second time in two days and stumbled toward the door, leaving Tristan and whatever was left of my pride behind.
I tripped onto the sidewalk in front of my house, blinking back tears, and a few yellow leaves floated down from the magnolia tree in our yard before being caught up on the ocean breeze. As I shoved open the gate, I could feel him watching me from the gray house. Always, always watching me.
A wave of despair threatened to overtake me as I pictured the darkness of a forever without him.
Focus, Rory. Focus.
“Hey, beautiful.”
I flinched at the familiar voice. Joaquin. Fantastic. Just what I needed. He sidled up behind me and walked right through the gate as if invited.
“I’m not in the mood right now, Joaquin,” I said, speed-walking toward the porch.
“Not in the mood for what? I just came by to—” Joaquin suddenly stopped and slapped at his neck. “Ow!”
“What?” I said, whirling on him.
His hand trembled as he gazed at his palm. Curled up in the center was a small, very dead, hornet.
“Are you okay?” I asked dutifully.
Joaquin didn’t answer. He cupped the back of his neck for a second with his other hand and glanced around, as if waiting for the punch line. But there was no one but him, me, and the birds chirping in the boughs of the magnolia tree shading the walkway. When he looked down at the hornet again, his trembling grew violent.
“What? Is it bad?” I asked, alarmed now. “Are you allergic?”