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And tonight, it’s that thought that brings me drifting back to earth, because nothing has changed on that front. We can’t magic away an age gap. So does Faith’s confession change anything, really?
I’m eleven years older than her. She’s just starting out in life, and I’m—jaded. Settled in my ways. Outwardly, I may look young enough, but it feels like I discover new aches and pains every damn day.
Could I pursue this? Would it ever be fair?
Or would I hold her back?
What if I waited a while longer? Though the thought tastes sour, it’s more hopeful than the others. After all, what’s a few more years? I already know I’m in this for life. Even if Faith moves on, I’ll crave her for the rest of my days.
So maybe I’ll give her space for a while longer. Let her run wild in her youth, then tell her I’m here once she’s ready.
Yeah. It’s the right thing to do.
* * *
Our terraced houses stand side by side on the outskirts of town, wedged in the middle of the row. Faith and Stephen’s house is painted lavender; mine is pale green. Stone steps lead up to our front doors, and window boxes overflow with leaves and flowers on our sills.
My house is dark. Their windows are lit up, but I don’t need to crane my neck for a glimpse of Faith in her bedroom.
My gut swoops. She’s out here, waiting.
Sitting on the stone steps out front, Faith cuddles her knees. A mug sits beside her hip, steam curling into the night air, and she’s still pale beneath her freckles. Her bleak gaze watches me approach.
“The stars are bright tonight,” I say, by way of greeting.
Faith grunts. I lower myself to sit beside her, careful of the mug, and prop my arms on my knees. We both watch the distant ocean, dark and glittering beneath the moon.
The tide’s all the way out, and the expanse of sand is ghostly, pockmarked with seaweed. The air smells like Faith’s hot chocolate, mingled with brine.
“He shouldn’t have read it,” I say quietly. “But your brother didn’t mean to hurt you like that. If Stephen had realized—”
“I know.” She traces her own freckles, joining the dots on her bare thigh. I swallow hard and force my eyes away.
Those shorts. Those bottle green shorts.
They were sent to test me.
“No one will remember,” I say, because Faith is slumped over beside me, her beautiful face etched with misery, and I hate it. Hate seeing her this sad. “A week from now, the whole town will have moved on to something else. Some other gossip.”
“I don’t care about that.” She picks up her mug then puts it down again. The china clinks against stone, then she turns to me, eyes searching. “I care whatyouthink, Andre.”
Go get her.
Go get her.
My restraint has never been tested like this. Christ. A morning run won’t be enough to burn this off—I’ll need an ultra marathon. Miles and miles and more punishing miles, with sweat pouring off my skin and each gasping breath burning my lungs.
Maybe then my tensed muscles will relax. Maybe then this poundinghungerwill fade away.
But for now, I clear my throat and rub one palm along my jaw, stubble crackling. “WhatIthink?”
Faith nods. But how can I reassure her without giving false hope?
I’m hers, always. Ready and waiting—after a few more years have passed. That doesn’t help her now, and it’s not fair to put pressure on her like that. Pressure to come back to me.
Faith waits, lips firming. When the words don’t come, she scowls and stands.
“Sorry,” she says, bending to scoop up the mug, and she won’t look at me. Her dismissal slices my gut. “This is super awkward, and you didn’t ask for any of this. I won’t bother you with it again, Andre. Don’t worry.”
