Page 5 of My Fallen Saint

He cupped my cheek. “You’re barely seventeen, El. And I’m almost twenty. Plus, I work for your uncle.” Something in his face hardened. “Your uncle’s not the kind of man who would overlook it. We’ve already been playing with fire. Push this, and we’ll both get burned.”

I wanted to shout back that I didn’t care. I wanted to burn. I wanted to get lost in the flames with him until we were both reduced to ashes.

But I didn’t say any of that because I knew he was right.

He shook his head slowly, his expression profoundly sad. “I never wanted—”

“What?”

“Here. I never wanted to come here.”

“To Laguna Cortez?” My voice rose in surprise. “I thought everybody wanted to come here.”

“My dad made me. Now, though… ” He trailed off, running his fingers over his short hair. “God, Ellie, now this is exactly where I want to be.”

“Please,” I said, blurting out the word before I lost my nerve. “I want to.”

The corner of his mouth curved up. “Me, too. Obviously. But we can’t.”

“Yes, we can. Uncle Peter’s barely noticed that we’re friends, much less that there’s more.”

“Fine. We can.”

For a moment, my heart stopped, but then he continued.

“But, El,” he said. “I won’t.”

He stuck to that, too.

Every night, I’d go to bed and slide my hand between my legs while I imagined him doing all the things I read in romance novels. Every night, I’d silently pray for him to sneak into my room and into my bed.

But he never did. He kept his word, even though each time we were alone the air was so charged, I was sure that one of us would crack.

We didn’t, though.

Not then. Not yet.

For the next two months, our friendship grew even stronger. Especially with Brandy gone, he became my closest friend. We talked for hours that summer after he was done with work, mostly at the tidal pools. Sometimes he’d stay late at the house, because Uncle Peter was hardly ever home.

We’d talk or cook dinner or watch movies. Horror mostly, because it was an excuse to sit close and hold hands at the first scary scene.

And always, always, there was that greedy, guilty need that had me squeezing my thighs to relieve the pressure. I imagined crawling into his lap and doing exactly what the girls in those movies were doing.

And I didn’t even care that if I did them, then surely the monster would get me, too.

Maybe I should have cared more. Maybe in the end, I really did bring the monsters down on me.

I don’t know. But I vividly remember that September day when Chief Randall came to school and delivered the news that Uncle Peter was dead. Killed by a single bullet to the back of the head, shot from the gun of a monster.

In grief and fear, I’d run home, expecting to find Alex working in the office. But he wasn’t there. Later, I learned that he’d been checking the books at one of Uncle Peter’s properties when a detective had come to give him the news. They’d questioned Alex for over an hour, digging deep into Uncle Peter’s business, searching for clues as to who might have held a grudge.

I didn’t know any of that at the time. All I knew was that I was dying inside. That I needed to hear his voice in order to know that he was truly okay. Because everybody I loved—everybody—was taken from me. Over and over and over again.

All afternoon and evening I sat with my phone beside me, curled up under a blanket in the living room with Amy Randall, the Chief’s wife, bringing me hot tea and cookies. I loved her for taking care of me, but even with Amy in the room, I felt alone.

Alex never called, and at ten o’clock Amy kissed my cheek and got herself settled in the guest room. I went upstairs to my room—and there he was, sitting on the edge of my bed.

I don’t know how, but I managed to shut and lock the door behind me before I fell, sobbing, into his arms. “You’re going to be okay,” Alex whispered. “I hate that you’re hurting, but you’re strong, El. Never forget how strong you are.”