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I nod, because Oh my God, I was right. I try to breathe, and try to remind myself that God, it’s just déjà vu, Calla. It happens. But it’s been happening a lot, to me and to Finn.
And it felt so real. I shake my head, to shake the oddness away. I can’t slip away from reality, I can’t be like Finn. God.
Dare’s hand covers my own, and we stare out at the ocean for several minutes more.
His hand is warm and strong, and I relish it, and I push away all disturbing thoughts because honestly nothing matters right now but this.
I relish the way Dare rests his hand against my back as we walk down the beach toward his bike. And I relish the way I fold against him as we ride back home. I relish it all because it’s amazing. No matter what else is going on, this is amazing.
I feel like I’m floating as I slide off the bike and stand in front of him.
We pause, like neither of us wants to call an end to this day.
Finally, Dare smiles, a slow grin, a real grin that crinkles the corners of his dark Dare Me eyes. He reaches up and tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear, and I swear to God I have to force myself to not lean into that hand.
“I’ll see you soon, Calla-Lily,” he promises huskily. I nod, and watch him turn and walk away.
God, he looks good walking away.
He pauses, and turns, and I think he must’ve read my thoughts.
“Calla?”
“Yes?”
“Do you believe in fate?’
I smile, because what a silly question. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I do.”
I’m filled with warmth and I float up to my room.
Chapter Twenty
When I wake the following morning, the first thing I notice is piano music.
Since I know there isn’t a funeral today, this is very odd. My mother was the only one who knew how to play in our family.
I crawl out of bed and pad down the stairs, inching into the chapel, not sure what I expect to see. But nothing I expect prepares me for what it is.
Dare sits at the piano in the front, the sunshine pouring in from the windows above and reflecting off of his dark hair, like he’s been chosen by God Himself. His eyes closed in concentration, he plays as if the music flows through him like blood or air, like he has to play to live.
I lean against the door, watching his hands span the keys, ur
ging the music from them, with all the grace of an accomplished pianist. I don’t recognize the song, but it’s beautiful and haunting and sad.
It’s just right for this place.
And even though Dare is wearing dark jeans and a snug black shirt and that trendy silver ring on his middle finger, he’s right for this place too.
Because he’s playing the piano as it should be played.
With reverence.
Here in this chapel, it’s only right to revere our surroundings, the quiet peacefulness of a room used to honor the dead.
I close my eyes for a minute, unable to stop myself from imagining what it would be like if his hands worshipped my body in the same way as they worship the keys. My dreams have been like foreplay, because every night, he touches me. He claims my body as his own, and every night, I enjoy it. Right now, I recall those dreams, and my cheeks flush as I picture his fingers trailing over my hip, up my abdomen, pausing at my breasts. My lips tingle from wanting his kiss. My breath hitches, my tongue darts out, licking at my lips, my face slightly feverish.
