He steps back into my personal space, right up into my face until I’m forced to either shove him backward or lower my arms. I let them drop unceremoniously to my sides.
“You know what, Ryne? Here’s one more truth for you, consider it a bonus for funsies. You’re acting like a coward. Things get to feeling a little too real and suddenly you’re looking for any excuse to run. I didn’t kiss Jeremy and you. Damn well. Know it.” He jabs an index finger into my chest to underscore his last few words. “Even if we’re supposedly ‘not dating,’ I would never do that to you, or anyone else for that matter. Give me a little credit.” He reaches up and cups my cheek, his warm palm presses gently and feels like home. My body so badly wants to lean into his touch. I let out an unsteady breath.
“I think you’re just scared, Ryne,” Dacen whispers, rubbing his thumb along my jaw. “Putting your,” he swallows hard. “Putting your heart in someone else’s hands is a scary thing. They can choose to hold it close and cherish it, or rip it apart and walk away, leaving you with a shredded mess and no hope of piecing it back together unchanged. Scary shit,” he laughs shakily. “And confusing. It’s a lot to deal with, and between that and how you don’t want to play soccer in college or—”
“I never said that,” I snap as every muscle in my body tenses.
Dacen raises an eyebrow. “Okay, regardless of the reasons, it’s okay to feel like that, ya know? Scared, anxious, whatever.” Prickles of anxiety flow through my blood, pinging every single cell on their way from my brain to my heart to my gut and back, circulating round and round. “Come on, Ryne,” he pleads. “You’re better than how you’re acting right now. We both deserve better than this.” He presses and holds his lips against mine. I’m frozen, still partially dazed from his words and partially from residual anger. It’s slowly fizzling away though, just small flames flickering dully. But now the gaping hole left from the receding anger quickly fills with something infinitely worse: shame at how I’ve acted, how I’ve treated him all this time. I’m disgusted with myself.
If I really think about what I saw between Dacen and Jeremy, I know he’s being truthful. Dacen’s right. He absolutely deserves better than this. Better than me. I can’t even admit out loud that there was anus. He deserves better. My mind is reeling and the selfish part of me presses my lips against his, relishing the taste of him one last time. My heart dips low, hanging precariously by a thread.
And then I gently push Dacen away and take a step back.
Our eyes meet and he must see the stubborn determination in mine because his shoulders slump and his face falls. Disappointment washes over me, and wave after wave of shame roils through me, wrecking my insides as it crashes and seeps into every cell in my body, drowning me from the inside out.
“You once told me you never lie, especially to me. Remember?” His voice is low and defeated. “Do you remember what I told you long before that? You speak your truth through your eyes, Ryne. So you can tell me ’til you’re blue in the face that all this meant nothing to you, but those right there,” he points at my face with the first two fingers of one hand, “those things rat you out.”
Dacen stares at me, his eyes searching until final resignation settles in them. An empty feeling washes over me and the chill of loneliness settles deep inside my bones. Jagged tendrils of regret and uncertainty snake through my insides, squeezing around that vice and making it even tighter. My heart sputters and stalls as Dacen sniffs and looks down at the floor. His eyes are closed when he raises his head again but that doesn’t hide the tear that slips down his cheek.
I can’t fucking breathe.
“Goodbye, Ryne.”
Half of my heart crashes to the floor and shatters as the other half of it walks away from me.
“D, wait—” He either doesn’t hear my low plea or he simply ignores it. I slump back against the wall and slide down to the floor.
What the hell have I done?
43
Dacen
I’m done. We’re done. It’s over. Finito. No more. Only it hasn’t sunken in yet, no matter how many different ways I say it. Not fully. It’s been a week since we broke up or whatever the hell you call it when you’re not really together in the first place, and part of me is always still two seconds away from picking up my phone and texting Ryne or calling him like nothing’s changed. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about how yesterday Robin Stark flew into the kitchen table and knocked my plate on the floor while my back was turned, and gobbled up my bacon and half of my eggs before I made it over to her. He’d get a laugh out of it. I can picture his slow smile deepening into a smirk and the smart-ass comment that would follow. I still really want to tell him about what I want to study in college. There are so many things I want to tell him, but he’s too damn stubborn and bullheaded.
The other part of me walks around flayed wide open, heart and soul exposed. All that’s left are charred and burnt edges from the raging firestorm that swept through. And each thought of him—because what happened plays through my mind on repeat—pours a little salt on my raw, unprotected nerves. The protective sheath is gone, totally destroyed. He drew me in with his sexy face and wicked smirks. And he warned me, way back on that picnic table, he told me what would happen; he’d eat me alive. And that’s ultimately exactly what happened. There’s something in him that burns wicked-hot—and not in the ‘he’s hot as hell’ way. And you can’t reach into the fire and expect to not get at least a little bit scorched.
I reached into the flames.
I got burned.
If only I could forget the taste of him, forget the feel of his skin against mine. If only I could forget how he’d twisted and turned and wound his way through my brain, my body, and my soul. But I can’t forget. He left a permanent imprint on me. I’m almost sadder for Ryne, though. He seems dead set on going through life not letting anyone in, and that makes my heart ache for him because he deserves to be happy. He just can’t get out of his own way long enough for that to happen. We’d made some progress. He opened up a little bit in my backyard at the fire pit, at the falls, on all of our not-dates. His shields started to come down, bit by bit. We are—were—close, even with all the crap that was always circling around us. I still feel the pull every time we see each other at our lockers or pass each other in the hallway. Sitting in three fifty-minute classes with him every day is particularly painful. I want to reach out and brush my fingers along his arm, touch his cheek. I want him to poke me in the dimple, although they haven’t made an appearance in a while. I hate him but I miss him so much. No, that’s not true. I don’t hate him, and that’s the problem.
I love Ryne.
And that figures. Of course I fall in love with one of the most emotionally closed guys I’ve ever met.
This morning Ryne walks up to his locker while mine is being a bitch again and won’t open. He reaches over and slams his hand into it, and it pops open as it always does for him. Before he draws his hand away completely he hesitates, like he wants to touch me. After a few seconds, his hand drops down by his side.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
His response is low, almost a whisper also. “You’re welcome.”
They’re the first words we’ve spoken to each other since we split. We stand beside each other for a moment, not talking, not moving, just breathing. Then he opens his locker and swaps out the books he needs and closes the door softly. I quickly get my books as well. He turns to me and opens his mouth to speak when the warning bell for homeroom rings.
He tries to speak again but I interrupt. “Better go. Don’t wanna be late.” I pull my bag over my head.
He closes his mouth and nods once. “Right.”
