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I already know.
And I can’t believe it took me all this time to realize this. That he could’ve said something, done something. He could’ve been his usual asshole self that people always talk about, thatIhave always witnessed, and made my parents’ life even more difficult.
But he didn’t.
Because of his guilt.
Everything,all of this, is because of his guilt.
And it just makes me ache. And ache and fucking ache.
It makes me hurt.
For him.
It makes me want to run to my window and sneak out to go find him. Wherever he is.
Because he’s not here, is he?
He’s not across the green grounds. Something that I’ve always hated, our bedrooms on the same level, our windows so aligned with each other.
But not anymore, not in this moment.
In this moment, I want him here.
I want to tear open the drapes and look at his window. I want to know that he’s up there, and not somewhere in town that I don’t know. I get so desperate that I’m about to text him. I’m about to ask him about where he’s staying, why is he not here where he should be.
When I notice a shadow on my window.
A dark silhouette.
Of a large body and broad shoulders.
And even before that shadow moves and I see an arm lifting and tapping on my window, I’m out of my bed. I’m already dashing over and tearing the drapes open.
To reveal him.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
He’s here.
Here.
Here. Outside my window.
Just like he was that night. The night of my sixteenth birthday.
He’s perched on the nearest branch, his muscular arms propped up on the frame, looking all casual and athletic.
Beautiful.
With his summer skin and reddish-brown eyes.
So much so that I freeze.
And he has to command, “Open the window.”
“You’re here.”
