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“I regret our fight, Theo. And I miss our friendship, even if you keep saying we’re not friends.”
She watches me for the longest moment. I watch her back, my gaze stuck against the forget-me-not blue of her eyes, unable to penetrate the emotions beyond it. We’re standing at arm’s length from one another, and the gallery around us might as well not exist.
Existence right now is Theodora’s blue gaze, her delicate skin, her long hair, the stormy ocean of restrained emotions I long to plunge into, the heat of every kiss and caress I want to bestow upon her.
I shiver, my skin burning with the want of hers.
“I forgive you,” she says finally, voice surprisingly soft. “And I’m sorry for saying we aren’t friends. We are. Well…” She lets out a little laugh. “We’re not—are we? But we’re something.”
Something like love and hatred and desire, something like the inky depth of an abyss and the soaring breath of a zephyr. Something painful and exhilarating, the golden palaces of heaven and the dark wastelands of hell. Something like soulmates and lovers and enemies.
Something imperfect and sublime.
“Yes, Theo.” I extend my hand between us. “Let’s be somethings again. Let’s not let anything get in the way of our somethingship.”
She takes my hand and smiles, finally. “Best somethings forever.”
Chapter 29
Open Wound
Theodora
ZacharyandIgoalmost a month without arguments.
It’s the last month of the term, and so we spend a significant amount of that time preparing for exams, but it’s still a win for us. Our delicate alliance has seen the merging of our territories in the library, Zach and I sitting side by side to read and write in silence for hours on end.
During the Apostles seminars, our discussions are civil even when we disagree, and Zach no longer seems to be choosing his point of view based on a blatant desire to start an argument—his speciality since we were team captains in debate club.
But not arguing with Zachary comes with its own challenges.
Sitting next to him, with the warmth of his shoulder radiating against me, is stressful in a completely different way. The brush of his arm against mine as he turns a page in his book, his thigh brushing alongside mine when he shifts in his seat after an hour of sitting in the same position, become small, lingering acts of torture. Reminders of what could be between us—of what I’m not allowed to have.
The unnamable, unbearable tension between us, without the vessel of arguments to dispel it, has nowhere to go. So it stays right there, coiling itself tightly, making the air between us dark and hot and suffocating.
Like a serpent preparing to strike, it bides its time.
Thenightbeforethefinal lit mock exam, I’m at my usual desk, carefully writing out revision cards for key quotes, when Zachary arrives.
His philosophy teacher has him help out with debate club on some Thursday nights, so I expected him to be late. I’m not annoyed, but I am stressed. Tomorrow’s exam is closed book, and I’ve not been getting enough sleep, and the Christmas break is coming up soon, which makes my skin crawl with unspeakable anxiety.
It’s a sickening potion of emotions that boils and bubbles inside me while I do everything I can to stop it from spilling out.
Zach shrugs off his coat, folds it and drapes it on the back of his seat. Every one of his movements drips with elegance and grace. The deep azure of his sweater emphasises the creamy brown of his skin, and the gold armature of his glasses catches the light. He looks older than his years, poised with a deep inner confidence I could never have, his clever eyes focused on some inward thought.
His gaze meets mine, and he flashes me a smile.
I look away quickly as he sits down next to me, as he usually does, taking out his books and laptop from his leather satchel. He settles himself, his arm brushing against mine as he does.
I close my eyes. It’s warm in the library, but I’m cold—I’m always cold lately. When he stops moving, his chin propped on the knuckles of one closed hand, I shift in my seat, tilting myself away from him with my arm right against his.
Zachary’s warmth isn’t like the normal heat that exudes from flames or skin. It’s a delicious, molten heat, suffused with the scent of his cologne, his presence. I almost melt against it. He doesn’t move, letting my arm rest against him.
We sit like this, the warmth of him an elixir of comfort.
When my revision cards are finally finished, I have no choice but to move, gathering my cards into a neat stack. Zachary looks up from his book.
“Want me to test you?”
