Page 195 of One Wild Wish

She inhaled sharply. I expected her to bite back, the way her sarcasm used to match mine blow for blow. Her tone quieted instead. “Since when does mending a broken heart involve dousing a girl in gasoline?”

“Not a girl. Her shadow. It was about torching history you can’t shake. And I thought you hadn’t heard the song.”

“I maybe saw the lyrics online.”

“Which line is your favorite?”

She opened her mouth, likely to tell me off, but she flattened her lips. A twinkle backlit the wariness slitting her eyes. “It’s tough to decide between the part where you stomp on my ashes or the line where you say my soul is black.” She punctuated the gibe with a shaky grin.

There was nothing amusing about that dark song, or my state of mind when writing it, or how I wanted to tear Gwen’s clothing off now and release this tension and attraction for good. “I like the part where I watch your shadow burn.”

Her nostrils flared. “You should write Hallmark cards.”

I barked out a laugh, so loud and sudden we both startled. This acerbic bantering was unexpected. I didn’t think I was capable of banter with Gwen, brusque or otherwise. We’d excelled at mocking each other back in the day, jabs that had been more sweet-natured than this barb-laced jousting. Still, that nostalgia returned with a vengeance, reminding me of our once-easy friendship.

As though reading my mind, she pressed her hand to her breastbone. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

An ache spread through my chest. “It’s been a long nine years.”

An eternity. So much had changed, yet so much hadn’t, our past still between us, but less potent. If I’d come for a different reason, maybe we’d have a chance at friendship. A chance to unleash my lingering angst a different way , a wicked voice murmured. But her mother’s letter had been burning a hole in my wallet for two months, that fragile paper folded and unfolded so often it threatened to rip.

Not that I needed to read it again. I had the damn thing memorized.

Dear August,

I am dying. As a dying woman, I have a request. Below is the name of Gwen’s father. She has always wanted to know who he is. I ask that you be the one to tell her, be there for her when she finds him.

It had seemed like a simple request, but nothing with Gwen was simple. Not the way reading the letter had made me want to hop on a redeye and fly home and scoop Gwen into my arms to hold and protect her while she finally met the man she’d searched out her whole life. Not the way I’d stuffed the note in my wallet and had skipped Mary’s funeral, hoping the sudden pain of missing Gwen would disappear. The final line had made it so much worse:

Remember what I told you on Gwen’s nineteenth birthday.

That’s how she’d ended the letter, as though I hadn’t lived the last nine years wondering why she’d said what she had that day. I’d called her for Gwen’s address, and she’d given me more than I’d hoped to hear. An earful that had made me believe Mary Hamilton had cared for her daughter more than she’d let on.

Gwen stood before me now, one hand still on her chest. So many emotions—affection, shame, every secret and hope we’d ever shared, and something like uncorked desire —swirling in her green eyes. Unless I was projecting my overwhelming feelings onto her.

Ignoring the cocktail of emotions shaking me up, I dredged up my fortitude and prepared to admit what I’d done.

But someone knocked on the door.

4

1:30 p.m.

34 ½ Hours and Counting…

Gwen

When had my mother’s house turned into Grand Central Station? The knocking persisted, but I didn’t budge. August looked a second from combusting, as though an internal war waged behind his sharp expression, and the intensity in his eyes sucked me in. Twin hazel tractor beams.

I’d never thought I’d see tenderness on his face again, but it had been there. A semblance of it, at least. There’d been anger, too, at first. That man had every right to spit in my eye and launch a flaming shit-bomb at my door. But the hint of longing under his tight features, the way his gaze had dipped down my body, skimming my curves, had been wholly unexpected.

And likely nonexistent.

I for sure imagined the heat in his perusal, the way I’d imagined every love song he’d ever written had been about me. Because I was certifiable. Crazy for August Cruz, always had been, always would be. Lovesick until the day I die.

A breather was in order. Space to remind myself this man had actually written hate songs about me. “Don’t go anywhere,” I said, terrified he and his tractor-beam eyes would disappear from my life again.

He offered a stiff nod.