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I mean, obviously we weren’t identical, but we both had angular features, straight noses and wide eyes. Ares had also been in a lot more physical altercations than me. He had a scar under his eye and along his jaw. They were faint, but they were there and possibly because of football.
This is wild.
He was like an inverted version of myself, masculine features where mine were softer. Then there were the more obvious things, our height being one of them.
We had the same hair.
Though Ares had put his ball cap back on, his dark, almost black curls still nearly touched his shoulders. These days, I definitely wasn’t straightening my own, and we even had a similar curl pattern, thick and untamed if one let it get to that point.
Ares’s lengthy fingers tapped his jeans, rips at the knees showing the same honey-gold complexion like myself. He braced his chunky Court ring, like Dorian’s just without the rubies for eyes.
“How’s your cheek doing?”
Our gazes clashed after what he said, and I apparently hadn’t been the only one looking at the other. He had his knees up, arms out. He pointed toward me. “Your face? Is that okay?”
I touched my cheek, no pain, but my own altercations hadn’t healed completely yet. I’d hit the floor in that warehouse, the warehouse with Godfrey. I hugged my legs. “It’s fine.”
He said nothing, still staring at me. Me and this dude even had the same eyes, tawny colored like a doe’s fur. I suppose a buck in his case. His hand locked around his wrist. “What about over all? I…” Lengthy fingers gripped his cap. “I heard you had some bumps and bruises.”
I suppose he had.
The world knew my story after all.
Those physical scars were basically gone today, all evidence of that day gone, but how could it really be?
The mental wounds still there, I turned away from him, pressing my face to my knees. “You said no one’s coming,” I stated, arms shaking, so fucking chilled by all this. “Why?” I thought he’d bring an army if he found out where I was.
They had before.
Silent, Ares left me to hear my own words fade off into the air.
He touched me.
Or at least he tried to. I whipped around, and he had his hands up. The jacket he’d been wearing was in his hands, and he held it up. “I was just going to… you know.” He pointed toward me. “You look cold. You were shaking.”
I was shaking and only partially from the cold.
His lips moved. “Here. Take it.”
I did, putting it on, and the wash of heat surrounded me. Ares’s jacket was heavy, and the Windsor Prep W was stitched on the chest. Lined with a silky material, I hated how comfortable it made me feel. How it reminded me of other comfortable times, late nights and laughter in his garage when we’d painted together.
Or watched late night TV.
That time we’d binged The Office and eaten so much junk food I thought I would pop still lingered in my mind. He’d come to my rescue that night, been there for me. I closed my eyes. “Why are you here by yourself?” I asked again, turning. We locked eyes again, and I swallowed. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell…”
I couldn’t think his name, let alone say it. It was like my brain was rejecting it or something, and that remained consistent. Whenever I thought about his friend lately, it triggered things in me.
And the reason these days were obvious.
If Ares knew what I’d been about to say, he didn’t mention it. His gaze fell to the hill. “You ran before,” he said, his attention flicking up. “But you didn’t with Thatcher. You trusted him.”
My breath left in short puffs, heart racing.
“I figured having your back obviously worked for him so…” He shrugged, his expression hardened. He brought a hand down his face. “Figured it was my best bet. Didn’t want you to run.”
He shook his head after that. Like he was rejecting thoughts too. Maybe he was. This was obviously difficult for him.
“Why did you run?” he asked, and this was far beyond us just being beside each other. He didn’t have a right to ask me any questions.
