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‘Gabe.’ Her voice was husky with the unexpected need. ‘Who was she?’
‘Marie.’ The sound of loss and regret pulsed through her. ‘She was sixteen.’
‘Like I was,’ she breathed, absurdly glad to find some tenuous link between her teenaged self and his ghostly lover.
‘Same age as you were,’ he agreed. ‘Only I didn’t find someone else. She left me.’
‘You met in hospital?’ It was all beginning to fall into place.
He nodded, his fingers almost painfully tight but Polly didn’t care, welcomed his grip, anchoring him to her. ‘It’s not like anywhere else,’ he said. ‘Everything is distilled down. You’re defined by your illness but underneath? Underneath you’re still a person, a teenager desperate to act out and find yourself, and the steroid bloating and the hair loss and the bruising and burns? None of it changes that. Marie and I met and we knew each other. Instantly.’
A shocking, unwanted jolt of jealousy hit her and Polly swallowed it back. It was unworthy. Of her and of the story he was confiding in her.
‘Tell me about her.’ She wanted to know everything.
‘She was understanding and acceptance. She was anger and rebellion and gallows humour. Just like me. It was...’ he paused, searching for the right word ‘...intense. I don’t know if we’d met in normal life if we’d have even liked each other. But then? Then she was all that I wanted, all that I needed. We were going to make it together or fail together.’ He laughed softly, bitterly. ‘The hubris of youth. But it didn’t turn out the way we planned. I was so angry that she left me behind.’
‘And now?’
‘And now I am a decade older. That time is a memory, and Marie...’ He swallowed. ‘I don’t even think of her day to day. I don’t think of the boy I was. I took that time and I locked it away. I got well, I left Provence, left France, went away to college and I reinvented myself.’
‘You’re a survivor.’
She stopped and turned to face him. One hand was still held tightly in his; she allowed the other to drift up, to touch his cheek, to run along the defined line of his cheekbone and along the darkly stubbled jaw.
‘You did what you had to do to survive. That makes you pretty darn amazing.’
He looked down at her, a pulse beating wildly in his cheek, the eyes almost black with pain. ‘I forgot how to feel,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It hurt too much. Loss and pain and need. It was easier to smile and flirt and work and leave all that messy emotional stuff locked away. With Marie.’
‘I know,’ Polly whispered. She stared up at him. ‘Emotions hurt.’
‘Coming back, coming home, I can’t forget. It’s in every look, every word. My parents see me and they remember it all, all the hurt I caused them. And I see her, on every street corner, in every field. I see my broken promises.’
‘You must have loved her very much.’ Polly could hear the wistfulness in her voice and winced inwardly.
‘Love?’ He laughed softly. ‘We were too young and fiery for love. I needed her, adored her, but love?’ He looked right at her, gold flecks in his eyes mesmerising her. ‘I don’t know what love is either, Polly.’
She took a step towards him, eyes still fixed on his. The one small step had brought her into full contact, her chest pressed against his, hips against hips. She slid the hand cupping his face around his neck, allowing her fingers to run through the ends of his hair.
‘Neither do I,’ she said. ‘I know want.’ She stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss on the pulse in his throat. He quivered. ‘I know need.’ Emboldened, she moved her mouth up and nipped his ear lobe. ‘I know desire. Sometimes they’re enough, they have to be enough.’
Her mouth moved to his, to drop a light butterfly kiss on the firm lips. She had only meant to comfort him, to take his mind off the past but one small step, three small kisses, three dangerous words shifted the mood, charged the air.
‘Are they?’ he asked, his eyes burning a question.
Polly couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak, could only nod as he continued to look hard into her eyes, into her soul.
She had no idea what he saw reflected there, all she knew was that she was boneless with desire, burning up with the unexpected, unwanted, but very real need pulsing through her, his body branding her, claiming her at every point they touched.
She didn’t want him to think, didn’t want any regrets, she just wanted him to hold her tight, wanted to taste him. She pulled her hand out of his, the momentary loss of contact chilling her until she slid her arm around his waist, working her hand under his T-shirt to feel the firm skin underneath. There under her fingers was the tattoo. She traced it from memory feeling him shudder under her touch.
