Page 218 of One Wild Wish

His eyes dropped to my chest, then skimmed up to my neck and face, lower again to my breasts and hips. The zig-zagged pattern tied me into knots. “Sure,” he said.

I looked back in the direction of the glass case, where my mother’s photo was tucked inside. A strange pressure cramped my lungs, as though fresh oxygen lay that way. Answers. Stones I had yet to turn. But there were no more clues leading to my father. Nothing here would help me find him.

August placed his arm around me as we pushed outside, shielding me with his body. A silly effort. Although a few panhandlers called out for cash, no one paid us much attention. Not that I minded leaning into his side. We arrived at my car too soon.

I gave him my address, and he followed me home and up the stairs to my apartment. I put my key in the lock like I had a thousand times before. I opened my door by rote, but I didn’t enter the space.

Not with August behind me, ready to enter as well.

My place looked stark from this angle, my surfboard and mountain bike hidden from view. All that lay ahead were empty slate walls, an Outside magazine splayed on the kitchen counter, a shopping list stuck to the fridge. August was about to walk into my home, my life, and learn things about me. Discover the woman I’d become. What struck me harder, though, the blow that had me frozen in place, was that he hadn’t fully known me all those years ago, either. Not really.

He’d seen what I’d let him see. He’d heard what I’d chosen to say, never fully speaking my heart. Even when tipsy and texting on my nineteenth birthday, I’d diluted the truth, hinting at an older crush, not admitting I’d still loved him irrevocably.

I had no clue how long he was in town, if our lives could converge, or if this was a wild waystation we’d been stranded on. He’d made the first step, at the restaurant, blurting our history to our friends. It was my turn to offer some blunt honesty, share the extent of my feelings for him back then: hiding from them had never served me in the past.

All he had to do was open my closet door and see the August Cruz poster tacked inside. Proof my feelings hadn’t diluted much. (Note to self: remove at first opportunity.)

“Gwen?” His hesitant voice was close, just behind me.

Gathering the strength that served me when powering through an insane workout, when I was sure my lungs would give out and my legs would buckle, I turned to my former best friend, and said, “I loved you.”

9

7:00 p.m., 29 hours…

August

My abs flexed, like her words had struck my gut. Adrenaline spiked my heart rate. It took three rough breaths to compute what tense she’d used.

Loved not love. Past not present.

Even worse was the heavy disappointment that crushed me at the realization.

She clutched her mother’s diary in one hand, her keys in the other. I didn’t cup her cheeks the way I ached to, or pull her into my arms. I kept picturing her face when she’d spoken about her job, how much she loved it. How she’d found her life’s purpose. A life that didn’t include traipsing around Europe with a touring musician.

But, man, the rawness in her voice. “When?”

A sad sigh slipped past her lips. “I don’t know. For as long as I can remember. Like, as kids, being around you made it hurt to breathe. During high school it got worse, especially at the end. And that shitty, lonely year after. Not just because of the lonely part, me building it up in my head.”

She tossed her keys and purse and diary on the floor behind her. Like she was angry. “I’m not talking about a teenage crush here, August. This was bone-deep love. And I was sure you didn’t feel the same. I thought you pitied me. Or it was my own lame excuse to push you away. I pushed everyone away. It’s what I did. Sorry. God.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m not making sense.”

But she did make sense. Too much sense.

Hand jammed into my pocket, I flipped my guitar pick over. Her texts nine years ago had hinted at the intensity of her feelings. That Zap she inspired had leapt from my phone the second I’d seen her name. This morning, at her mother’s, the way she’d spoken and the heat in her eyes had said all she hadn’t. My instant connection to her had been just as strong.

It had never faded. Not fully.

I’d tried to make sense of this Gwen habit over the years, how I’d pull that zoo picture up on my computer, stare at her, miss her. An addiction I could never kick. Each wallow session ended in sad songs sung. So, yeah…I understood what it was to feel like the marrow had been sucked from your bones, the hollowness that lingered. Nine years of emptiness. Nearly eleven if her previous silent treatment counted.

I also recognized the way she was breathing harder now, eyes round and wide. Filled with doubt and longing—hope that this second chance would stick.

I stepped toward her, a fraction closer. She had loved me. She loves me , my body and soul taunted. Whatever the tense, her truth had me addled. It was why I’d backed away from her earlier. This was not a woman I could casually fuck . That kiss in the street had resounded through me, like a tuning fork had vibrated through my blood.

This was a woman meant to be worshipped, strummed, discovered, possessed .

And she had a life here she loved. Friends. A great job. Not to mention I was helping her track down a deceased man.

Letting this go any further would be irresponsible. That didn’t stop my honesty from matching hers. “I loved you, too. I realized it when I started resenting Finch hanging around us. I hated him making you laugh, hated you wrestling with him or running through the sprinklers together. I wanted you to myself, but I also knew I was all you really had. That thought scared the crap out of me.”