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“My confession,” he says, “is that I really want to kiss you again.”
My heart skips a beat.
“But I’m not sure if I should,” he continues, the roughness of his tone belying the hesitation of his words. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and this mystery guy, whoever he is. And I’m not sure if you’ve had enough to drink that it could be considered taking advantage.”
He pauses when his face is only a few inches away from mine. I sit frozen against the hedge, too stunned to speak.
He’s waiting for my permission, I realize. He wants me to acknowledge that I want him. Heat floods my lips.
And I do want him, I’m forced to admit to myself. I want him to kiss me. I know exactly how warm and soft his mouth is. I know exactly what he can do with that tongue. It would be so easy to nod my head, to part my lips and meet his.
But Ian’s image floats into my mind. I can still see the pain and anger in those gray eyes. I can still feel the kindness, the gentleness in his touch on my skin. How can I sit here, aching for Ward to touch and kiss me, when not an hour ago I left Ian like that?
But the other half of my brain urges me forward. You already know you’re selfish and cruel, it says. You already know there’s no hope for you. If I’m a lost cause, then why not abandon myself to a moment of pleasure? A moment of release from all this madness? We’re not even touching, Ward and I, and yet I feel as if a surge of energy is pulling me forward, drawing me toward him. His lips look so inviting. And anyway, what harm could a kiss do?
I lean forward, my mouth only an inch away from his. He doesn’t come nearer, but his hand finds mine in the darkness. His fingers drift across the back of my palm, then up my bare arm, sending tiny tremors across my skin. When he reaches my shoulder, they skim lightly across my sleeve and toward the back of my neck. And still his lips don’t move.
I have to say something, I know. I must take responsibility for this. Tell him it’s okay. All I have to do is say one little word and I can lose myself in the fire that burns through my veins.
But maybe there’s a speck of decency in me somewhere because I can’t do it. I pull back.
For the second time tonight, I watch disappointment flood a man’s eyes.
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He sits back. “The other guy?”
I feel like all the energy’s drained out of me now that he’s a respectable distance away from me again. I cross my arms, suddenly cold.
“No. I mean, partially yes.” I clamber to my feet. “It’s hard to explain.”
He’s on his feet in an instant. We’re directly in the moonlight now, and the light gives his auburn hair a metallic, almost bronze sheen and highlights the lines of his face: straight nose, cheekbones, strong jaw. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with a V-neck that gives me the barest glimpse of his collarbone.
The reaction he stirs in me is very different from the one Ian inspires. With Ian, it was always about warmth and affection and comfort. He was a safe harbor, a solid strength when the rest of the world was falling down around me. It’s the opposite with Ward. Alternate flashes of fire and ice move through my body, and I feel anything but steady. He is the chaos. He threatens to pull me off-balance.
And strangely, I find myself longing for that madness.
He’s right in front of me now. There’s a heat in his eyes, a look that might have been possessiveness if he had any claim over me. I raise the wine to take another drink. But he stops me, taking the bottle from my hand. I can’t escape this moment by drowning myself in more alcohol.
“Tell me about him,” he says.
“About…”
“This guy.”
“He’s not… I mean, it’s hard to explain. Complicated.”
“Do you love him?”
I look up into his face, waiting for the roguish grin, but Ward is perfectly serious.
“It’s complicated,” I repeat.
“So you don’t love him.” He looks thoughtful. “But he loves you?”
Geez, did I make it that obvious? “It’s none of your business.”
“You shouldn’t lead him on.”
“Oh, please. You are the last person who should be giving me a lecture about this.”
He doesn’t seem to agree.
“You should break things off,” Ward says. “If you don’t love him, then break things off and let the poor sap get on with his life.”
I’m trying, I want to say. Instead, I tell him, “It’s not that simple. There’s nothing to ‘break off.’ There are just some things to sort through.”
“Then sort them.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
I’m about to tell him he can shove it, but then I see the look on his face. He’s not arguing for the sake of arguing.
“The only thing making it complicated is this.” He taps the side of his head. “Same with everything in life. Things are as they are. The complicated part comes from our own heads.”
He’s making a lot of sense for someone who’s had at least a bottle of wine tonight. Then again, maybe I think it makes sense because I’ve had the same.
I wish it were that simple. I wish I could just close my eyes and accept things as they are and forget about stupid little inconveniences like feelings.
Ward’s hand comes up and tangles in my hair. I close my eyes and lean into his touch.
Suddenly, it does seem simple. Right now, all of my other problems seem far away. And not because I’m distracted or running toward something else. Because here, looking at Ward, I feel hope. There’s something warm in my chest—a sense that the life I had doesn’t have to be my only life. There are a thousand possibilities ahead of me, and not just paths of mourning and loss and selfishness. There are paths of happiness, too, if I open myself to them. It’s that simple.
I feel myself leaning toward him, though I don’t remember making the decision to do so. His hand stills on my cheek and his eyes drop to my lips.
“Addison,” he says softly.
And then the real world comes crashing down.
Addison. He thinks my name is Addison. He has no idea who I am, no idea what I’m doing here. And based on some of the things he’s said about people like my family, he wouldn’t like me very much if he knew the truth.
This isn’t simple. No, this is a big fat mess. Right now, I’m living a lie, and this is really freaking complicated.
