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The corners of his mouth soften. “You’re not stubborn. You’re spiteful. There’s a difference. And the proof is that you’ll agree with me in a moment.”
I sniffle.
He swipes a thumb beneath my eye, plants his palm firm to my cheek, and drags his short nails against my skull to push my hair back from my face. “Am I wrong?”
My head shakes. “No.” I cave against him, squeezing his hand for strength. “You’re right.”
His arms close around me, tucking me so perfectly against his body. “I love you,” he whispers into my hair.
My heartbeat stumbles.
“I love so much of you. I’d like the opportunity to love you more each day. I’d like you to love me, too, but I never want your love to mean sacrificing any part of who you are. I want an eternity where you tell me anything that’s on your mind without fear I’ll reject you. I want you to snap at me if I’m twisting my chair too much. I want you to scoff and leave the room when you can’t stand being around me. But I always, always want you to come back when you’re ready. No matter how long it takes. I want to know, with complete certainty, that you spend the time with me that you do because you enjoy it. I know you’re happy by yourself. I know you’re capable of so much without me. So…all I’d like is if you could love me enough to choose to be around me every so often when perhaps you would have been just as happy alone. I’d like you to love me enough to choose my arms over anyone else’s when you need someone who knows how to hold you the way you want to be held. I’d like you to love me.” He pauses, and his fist closes against my back, crushing me so tight it’s almost painful. But it’s completely…completely perfect. “I’d like you to love me…because, Marcella, if you love me at all, it will be more than enough.”
My muscles shake as I fight for my every breath, battling to keep the rush of tears pouring down my cheeks silent.
In a single, crashing wave, it’s all too much.
I shove myself out of his arms, tripping as I fight to get on my feet.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
Looking down at him—kneeling, arms open as though awaiting my return—I can’t.
I’m shaking.
I’m frozen through.
My fingers hurt when I try to close them into my palms.
My mouth opens, and I attempt to find a reply that he deserves, something to reassure him that it’s okay, he’s okay, I’m okay; however, I can’t right at this moment, for some reason.
All I can do is knock on the top of his head with my knuckles, turn sharply, and flee.
I want nothing more than to throw myself into the bonfire as I pass, but as I march away from him, through the crowd, and past the tall flames, I refrain. I refrain until the party dies out, and I refrain until I fall asleep, yet again, on the couch.
Chapter 20
I’m not.
– Finnegan
“Are we gonna talk ab—” I begin, staring at Marcella.
“No. We aren’t going to talk about anything. Tonight is not a night for discussion. It is a night for bad decisions. The worst ones we can find, actually. I expect you to respect that.” Gaze planted on the city streaming by, she uncrosses her ankles to cross them in the other direction.
It’s been a week of pretending what happened at the bonfire doesn’t exist. A week of business as usual.
Every time I close my eyes, she’s on my lap. I taste her with my every swallow. I feel her. In my hands. On my skin. Throughout my soul.
When she fled the butterfly garden, I maintained the strangest sense of calm as my fingers threaded into my hair where she—almost lovingly—conked me on the head. As the fire died and everyone went home, I waited for the peace to break. I spent the first few days after the experience expecting a panic attack or a breakdown.
Some undeniable feeling I had ruined everything.
But Marcella came to work like normal. She talked with me like normal. She rolled her eyes and prodded and scoffed like normal. For about a week, we have been completely normal.
Then, last night, she sent me a picture to a sold-out Halloween event with the single command: Make it happen.
