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“Are you telling me this because I’m a twin?” I ask, my eyebrow lifted. He shrugs.
“Not really. I can tell just by looking at you and your brother that you’d do anything for each other. I’d expect nothing less out of you than to become a star for him.”
He smiles and I shake my head because he has no idea what I might’ve done for my brother, and actually, as each day passes, I have no idea what I might have done for him. I might have dreamed it all up, imagined it, and now it’s not relevant.
We fall into silence and sit in the sand, so close that I can feel the warmth emanating from his body, so close that whenever he moves, his shoulder brushes mine. I shouldn’t get so much pleasure from that, from the accidental touches, from his warmth.
But I do.
We sit in such a way for an hour.
In silence.
Staring at the ocean and the sky and the stars.
No one has ever felt comfortable like this to me before, with silence that isn’t awkward. No one but Finn. Until now.
“Did you know that the Italian serial killer Leonarda Cianciulli was famous for turning her victims into tea cakes and serving them to guests?” I ask absently, still staring out at the water.
Dare doesn’t miss a beat. “No. Because that’s an odd thing to know.”
I feel the laughter bubbling up in me, threatening to erupt.
“I agree. It is.” It’s something my brother shared with me yesterday.
Dare smiles. “I’ll be sure to work that in at the next party I attend.”
I can’t help but smile now. “I’m sure it’ll go over well.”
He chuckles. “Well, it’s a conversation starter, for sure.”
I don’t move because I sort of want to stay here forever, even though the dampness of the sand has leached into my jeans and now my butt is wet.
But even though I don’t want this to end, the darkness is so black now that it swallows us up. It’s getting late.
I sigh.
“I’ve got to go back.”
“Okay,” Dare answers, his voice low in the night, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I detected regret in it. Maybe he wants to stay here longer, too.
He helps me to my feet, and then keeps his hand on my elbow as we walk over the driftwood and through the tidal pools and up the trail. It’s that thing that real men do, the guiding a woman across the room thing. It’s gentlemanly and chivalrous and my ovaries might explode from it because it’s intimate and familiar and sexy.
When we get to the house, he removes his hand and I immediately feel the absence of his warmth.
He looks down at me, a thousand things in his eyes that I can’t define but want to.
“Good night, Calla. I hope you feel better now.”
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“I do,” I murmur.
And as I pad up the stairs, I realize that I actually do.
For the first time in weeks.
I dream about him again, and he’s so familiar and warm, his dark eyes sparkling as he looks into mine. “You’re better than I deserve,” he tells me, and that startles me, because I think it’s quite the opposite. I tell him so and he smiles knowingly, as though I’m wrong and I’ll realize it. When I wake up, I still feel warm.
