Page 70 of Run to Me

As he settles beside me, I inhale his cologne. It’s a manly scent that lingered in my house once he’d leave after hanging out with Logan.

“How are you holding up, birdie?” he asks.

In the past, the butterflies in my stomach would take flight when he called me by that name. Our secret nicknames used to make me feel special. Now those butterflies simply hover, struggling to flap their broken wings.

I stare at my mismatched sneakers, which complement the color-block dress I’m wearing. “You’re the first person to ask me that since the funeral.”

It’s been a week since we buried Logan, and everyone has forgotten I’m here. My family and classmates hardly noticed me when he was alive, but now I’m invisible.

Jensen rests his forearms on his thighs and links his fingers together. I like his hands. They’re big and strong, skilled at catching and protecting. Like Logan, he was a fantastic football player and had a college scholarship in the bag, but he gave up his dreams to care for Jake after their parents died.

When he leans into my space, searching for my gaze with those chartreuse eyes that penetrate my hardened shell, my breath catches. “You didn’t answer my question.” His deep voice sends my pulse into a frenzy.

I stutter. “F-fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not. You know you don’t have to pretend with me.” Warm, minty breath skims my face, and my heart responds to his proximity, going into overdrive. “Tell me your thoughts, birdie. It’s just us here.”

My eyes flick to his mouth. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to kiss him—if he would kiss me back. I have my answer the moment every sculpted muscle in his body tenses when he realizes what’s about to happen. But this might be my only chance at having the first kiss I’ve dreamed of. Now, it’ll also be a goodbye kiss.

Before he can stop me, I lean forward and press our mouths together. His lips remain stiff and unyielding, refusing my advance. He grips my arms to separate us, a move I expected but find disappointing nonetheless.

“Maisy, no,” he whispers, his voice shaky and pained. Like he’s embarrassed for me. Like it hurts him to pity me, the crazy girl who’s obsessed with him.

“Why not?” I focus on the fabric of his black shirt twisted between my fingers. Please don’t make me let go of you. If you do, this is the end of us.

“You’re Logan’s sister.” His lame excuse slaps me hard with the label I’ve come to despise. “And you’re fifteen.”

“I’ll be sixteen this summer.” My tone holds a mixture of unwelcome pleading and bold persuasiveness to convince him the details shouldn’t matter.

Jensen and I shouldn’t be bound by the rules. Our connection lives in the tendons and ligaments holding my body together, and I know he feels the same despite what he said to Logan.

“It’s still not okay.” He lets go of my arms, taking away the last bit of warmth my spirit possesses. The last bit of joy I’ve clung to in recent years. My only friend.

A tear lands on the apple of my cheek before I pry my fingers from his shirt—the physical act of releasing him the worst pain imaginable. Worse than losing my brother.

When Jensen reaches up to catch the tear, I shove his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He rakes a hand through his hair and blows out a long, unsteady breath. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Yes, you do.”

The truth in my statement settles between us on the bench. I turn toward him and hold his gaze, calling upon all the bravery I can muster.

“I never ask you for anything, J. But I need something from you now. I need to know how you feel about me.” Please, I add in my head.

Again, he says nothing, frozen like a statue with a tortured expression etched on his face.

“I’m only asking for words. Nothing else. Just your words. Admit you feel the same as I do.” I hate the desperation in my voice, so I clear my throat and wait. The pressure building in my chest restricts my ability to draw breath.

After tense seconds, he bows his head, unable to look at me when he plunges a knife coated with lies into my heart. “You’re imagining things.”

A level of anger I’ve never felt rushes to the surface. I scoff and rise to my feet, fists squeezed tight to keep my heartbreak from splashing on the rotted boards beneath me. “I’m so disappointed in you. The great Jensen Holloway, Mr. Perfect who can do no wrong, turns out to be a liar and a coward.”

Turmoil rages in his eyes when they meet mine again. He extends a hand toward me as if he can’t resist seeking me out for comfort, only proving my point. When I quirk an eyebrow, he lowers the hand and rubs it along his thigh.

“Exactly,” I say. “And if you can’t be honest with yourself and me, we’re done.”

His voice trembles. “Birdie, what are you saying?”