HOLDING ON TO GOOD
Prologue
Willow Kincaid had fought tooth and nail against it. She’d tried brushing it aside, ignoring it, and even outright rejecting it, but you couldn’t hide from the truth. Not for long. It was always there, lying in wait, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. It stalked you like prey, ran you to ground and then, when you were at your most vulnerable, it latched on with teeth and claws, ripping and shredding until there was nothing left but the searing pain.
And the realization that you were now forever changed.
Everything inside of you—everything you’d buried so deep, everything you’d taught yourself to believe, every feeling you’d denied, every fear you’d hid—shifted and rearranged and floated to the surface, big and bright and loud and impossible to ignore any longer.
It was huge. Monumental. And should only happen once in people’s lives and only at the biggest, most monumental of moments. Something so dramatic, so unavoidable, so life-altering, you had no choice but to acknowledge all those previously buried thoughts, feelings and fears.
Worse, you had no choice but to accept them.
A moment like a near death experience. One complete with your-entire-life-flashing-before-your-eyes and a light beckoning you to the great beyond.
It should not happen on an ordinary Sunday afternoon in mid-March. Or when you were doing something as mind-numbingly boring as geometry homework.
And it definitely should not happen because your best friend smiled at you.
It was ridiculous. Stupid and silly and just so…juvenile…it took all she had not to race outside, stand in the Jennings’ front yard, tip her head back and try to drown herself in the cold, pouring rain.
She and Urban Jennings had been friends since they were eight. Literally, half their lives. It was far from the first time she’d been on the receiving end of one of his slow grins. She’d seen his lips quirk into that lopsided, reluctant smile hundreds of times before. Thousands. Being able to tease a grin or laugh out of Urban had long been one of her greatest pleasures, bringing with it a sense of satisfaction. A warm, feeling of contentment that was soft and comfortable. Familiar.
But this? It was like one of the lightning bolts flickering outside had snaked under the closed windowpane and tapped her on the forehead. Her skin prickled painfully, her entire body felt flushed and hot and itchy.
She wanted to bask in that grin. To tip her head up, shut her eyes and just soak up the warmth of his smile like she was a damp, bedraggled wildflower and he was the friggin’ sun. She wanted to scoot closer to him on his twin bed and press her thigh against his. She wanted to straddle him, for God’s sake. To lean against his broad, solid chest and trace the shape of his mouth with her fingertips. Wanted to lightly rub at the shallow dent on the left side of his mouth that always deepened with his smiles or frowns. She wanted to press her mouth to his.
She wanted, wanted, and wanted some more.
And that was the problem.
These feelings, this entire experience was new when she’d thought there couldn’t possibly be another first between them. Exciting when there’d only ever been the ordinary. Frightening when she’d never, not once, had anything to fear from her friendship with Urban. Her thoughts and feelings, her secrets, were safe with him.
Had always been his as much as they’d been hers.
But these wild thoughts, these terrifying feelings were only for her.
This secret was too huge, too risky to share.
Ugh. She was so stupid. She’d gone and done the most reckless, the most idiotic, the worst thing she could ever do. She’d become a walking, talking, living, breathing cliché.
She’d fallen in love with her best friend.
Just kill her now.
“Willow?”
Her gaze flew up to find Urban had gotten to his feet and was staring down at her, his smile fading. Her heart lurched, like it was trying to free itself from her chest. As if it trusted Urban with its care and safety more than her.
She couldn’t even blame it. He was really, really good at taking care of things.
Other people, especially.
She had to swallow before she could speak. “What?”
“I asked you, twice, if you wanted something to drink.”
Keeping her eyes down, her face turned away slightly, she blushed—blushed, for God’s sake, the heat rising from her chest to flood her face—like a middle schooler whose crush had finally talked to her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just super focused. You know how I am about geometry.”
She’d been shooting for a light, casual, nothing amiss or strange here tone, but she ways way off the mark, her volume too loud, the words coming out too quickly, her voice cracking and going up at the end at least three octaves at the end.
He made a sound, a low rumble from his throat that could’ve been an affirmation. The Urban Jennings way of saying that yes, he did indeed, know how she felt about geometry from the few—but passionate—rants she’d gone on this year, bitching and moaning about how she shouldn’t be forced to take the class since she was never, ever, going to use any geometry in real life.
Or that rumble could’ve been disbelief. A sound meant to convey his suspicion that there was more going in in her head than she was letting on.
Who knew which was right? Boys were strange and mysterious creatures, even ones you’ve known forever.
He said something else, but as he spoke, he reached up to scratch the back of his head and his T-shirt rode up, revealing the hard ridges of his lower abs and all she could hear was the rushing of her blood, the frantic thump of her pulse. All she could do was stare at that exposed strip of skin, the light dusting of gold hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, her mouth dry, the prickling sensation returning with a vengeance.
“Huh?” she asked, dragging her attention up to his face, but he still had his hand in his hair, the fingers threaded through the brown strands, and her gaze caught on his rounded bicep, stretching the sleeve of his shirt. The skin on his inner arm was pale and looked incredibly soft, a vivid contrast to the hardness of the muscle beneath it. A contrast she wanted to explore with her hands and fingers, her lips and teeth and tongue. “Wh—what?”
He lowered his arm, his brown eyes narrowing. “A drink,” he said succinctly, but without the least bit of exasperation. It took a lot more than someone acting flighty and inattentive to make Urban lose his cool. The boy’s well of patience ran deep. “Do you want one?”
“Yes,” she blurted, oddly breathless. Increasingly flustered. “A drink would be…would be great.”
She tried to meet his eyes, she really did, but he was frowning at her thoughtfully, as if trying to figure out what, exactly, had caused her recent mental break, and she was terrified of giving something away. Of him seeing the truth before she’d even had a chance to process it.
Before she’d had a chance to decide what she was going to do with that truth.
Picking up her pencil, she pretended great focus on her homework, pursing her lips, beetling her brow, tapping the eraser end of the pencil against her mouth—the whole deal.
But he didn’t move. Just stood over her, big and broad, silent and curious.
Patient.
Damn him.
She inhaled carefully and forced herself to glance up. “Whatever you’re having is fine,” she assured him and even managed a small, serene smile, as if all was right with her world.
Nothing to see here, buddy. Move along now.
“You okay?” he asked slowly, an unenthusiastic inquisitor forced to do the unthinkable—try to figure out the confusing and erratic workings of the female mind.
Great. Now she had to lie to him.
Sure, she lied to herself when she had to. A teenager’s psyche was fragile and under-developed and needed to be protected above all else. Especially when the truth was just too painful, too scary, to deal with. Believing a few harmless not-quite-truths was a small price to pay for maintaining a healthy emotional and psychological balance during what was arguably the most important stage of one’s development.
It was also perfectly normal.
Her mom was a psychiatrist so Willow knew these things.
So, no. She didn’t have a problem lying to herself. For her own good, of course. And she did, occasionally, stretch the truth or withhold some of it when dealing with her parents. But that was only to save them from knowing certain details of her life that would cause them grief, disappointment or anger.
Coincidentally, that flexibility with honesty and the judicious application of certain facts had the added benefit of saving Willow from the grief, disappointment and anger, too.
It also saved her from getting grounded and having her driving privileges revoked.
Win-win.
But lying to Urban?
Never. Not about anything.
Well, unless you counted what happened between them on Valentine’s Day. Which she didn’t. Count, that was. Besides, that wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the truth.
Big difference.
Sending him a wide, toothy, smile, she held his gaze. “I’m fine.”
She hoped this lying to him thing didn’t become a habit. If you couldn’t trust your best friend with every part of you, what was the point?
Except Urban’s frowny, skeptical look said he wasn’t trusting her, either. At least, not about this. And he sure wasn’t buying what she was trying so hard to sell him.
There were only two ways to end a stand-off when he got that stubborn glint in his eyes. Surrender.
Or run like hell.
Both smacked of weakness and poked her pride, but only one left her the option of returning to fight another day. And that’s what she needed. A reprieve. Just a few minutes to gather her thoughts and decide where to go from here.
Setting her geometry book aside, she untucked her legs, scooted to the edge of the bed and stood.
And pretended not to notice how Urban stepped back, the move automatic after all this time.
It should be. It was the same song, same dance, they’d been doing for the past year.
Every time one of them got too close, the other retreated.
Every time except Valentine’s Day when Urban hadn’t kept distance between them. Hadn’t put distance between them.
He’d closed it.
Heart racing at the memory, at how close he’d gotten, how close they’d come to irrevocably changing everything between them forever, she ducked her head and mumbled about having to use the bathroom.
Then she fled.
No other way to describe it, the way she scurried out of his room, her hair hiding her face, her feet almost tripping over themselves.
In the hall she forced her steps to slow. Pressing against the opposite wall, she tiptoed past the closed door of Mr. and Mrs. Jennings’ bedroom where Verity, Urban’s eighteen-month-old sister, was napping.
Woe came to those who woke Verity from a nap.
Big, major, endless woe in the form of Marybeth Jennings’ wrath.
Not that Willow blamed Urban’s mom. Even when she was well-rested, Verity took the whole rotten toddler thing to a whole new level with copious amounts of tiny foot stomping, abundant whining and shouting no at any and all requests, questions and commands.
When she was tired? She was a little monster.
A really cute little monster, but a monster nonetheless.
It was a testament to the Jennings’ respect for—and, let’s be honest, fear of—Marybeth that the only sounds Willow heard as she ducked into the bathroom at the end of the hall were the quiet murmur of voices floating up from downstairs and the pitter patter of rain on the roof.
This too, shall pass.
You couldn’t keep the Jennings’ house this quiet, this still for long. There were too many people—Urban and his parents and his four younger brothers, ages nine to fourteen, with their burgeoning testosterone, overabundance of restless energy and cocky teen and preteen male attitudes.
The minute Verity woke up, the house would explode with laughter and shouts and running feet and wrestling matches. So many, many wrestling matches.
The minute Verity woke up, the boys would once again have free reign over the entire house and be allowed back upstairs.
Which meant Willow and Urban had approximately twenty minutes left of peace before his brothers invaded his bedroom like a small but mighty army, on a scouting mission to catch them in some compromising, or better yet, salacious, position.
They were sure Urban and Willow’s Just Friends thing was nothing more than a clever, eight-year long ruse that gave them the golden opportunity to engage in silent, stealthy sex acts right under their parents’ noses.
Willow’s parents thought so, too. When they were at her house, they had to be in view of one of her parents at all times. But Mr. and Mrs. Jennings had no problem letting them study or watch TV in Urban’s room as long as they kept the door open.
That didn’t mean they trusted them. It just meant they had more resources available for spying on them—namely nine-year-old Elijah and eleven-year-old Silas. But with the boys banned from the second floor during Verity’s nap time, and therefore unable to complete their given mission of making sure no sexy times were happening, Urban’s parents had taken turns checking in on them several times throughout the past hour and a half.
Adults. They thought teenagers were all rampaging hormones, baser instincts and zero self-control.
Okay, so they weren’t completely wrong. After all, two minutes ago Willow had wanted to climb Urban like a tree, bite his bicep, then lick her way into his mouth.
And her hiding in here wasn’t so much about willpower as self-preservation.
Leaning back against the closed door, she heard Urban’s footsteps as he passed the bathroom and headed down the stairs. She held her breath for a long, measured count of ten, giving him plenty of time to descend the stairs, before exhaling, then slowly opened the just far enough to make sure the hallway was empty.
She needed time and she needed space, and since she had neither, she’d have to make do with what she did have.
And while she was being forced to make a possibly life-changing decision in less time than it normally took her to pick what to have for breakfast each morning, she’d be damned if she’d make it cowering behind a locked bathroom door.
Especially a bathroom shared by five boys.
Five. And not one of them was capable of putting the toilet seat down.
That had to go against the law of averages.
Moving as quickly, as silently, as possible, she went back to Urban’s room. Closed her geometry book, then sat on the bed, only to bounce up and begin pacing, feeling like that aforementioned lightning bolt was zipping and zapping through her veins, ricocheting against her skin, wreaking havoc with her emotions. Burning through her protective walls and leaving all her well-intentioned excuses smoldering in the ashes.
She was edgy and amped up when she needed to be calm and collected. Nervous and confused when she needed confidence and clarity.
But mostly she needed to get a grip.
This was hardly the end of the world.
Just really bad timing.
They were just getting back to normal. Back to spending time with each other without awkwardness, tension and lingering hurt feelings.
Back to how they’d been before Valentine’s Day. Before Urban showed up at her house unannounced at nine p.m., apologetic and nervous and acting weird, and asked if they could talk on her porch.
Before he gave her a pair of ruby, heart-shaped earrings so beautiful, so delicate and perfect, she hadn’t been able to breathe.
Before he told her, his deep voice soft and sincere, that he liked her as more than a friend.
Before he asked her to be his girl.
It’d been like a moment out of time. A dream she hadn’t realized she’d always had until it happened for real. The dark, quiet night surrounded them, gently falling snow glittering like diamonds under the light at the corner of the garage. Urban, standing in the glow of her porch light, his expression hopeful, his hair slicked back, the high ridge of his cheeks and the tip of his nose pink from the cold. She’d wanted to cup his face in her hands. Warm his skin. Brush her thumbs along the sides of his mouth, trail her fingertips along the edge of jaw.
She’d wanted to throw herself into his arms and never let him go.
Instead, she’d stood there, stunned and freaked out, her mouth too dry to speak, her body shivering from the cold and a sudden, vicious onslaught of nerves.
Shaking with fear.
She’d known that no matter what answer she gave, everything between them was going to be different from that point on. Everything they’d been to each other was going to change.
That was a given. His choice—him showing up at her house, giving her those earrings, telling her those things, wanting more than friendship, wanting more from her—had already put those changes into motion.
But it was what she did next, it was her choice, that would determine what happened next.
And the wrong choice could cost her Urban.
She could lose him. Forever.
Talking too quickly, her voice unsteady, her tone pleading with him to understand, she’d given him back the earrings and told him she didn’t feel the same way. That his friendship was the most important thing to her and she didn’t want to lose that. That she was sorry—so very, very sorry—but they would only ever be just friends.
As she’d rambled, he hadn’t said a word. He’d kept his head down, his fingers gripping the jewelry box so tightly, his knuckles were white. But there was a moment, when the flow of her words slowed to a trickle that he lifted his head and she’d seen it. His disappointment. His embarrassment.
How much she was hurting him.
But he hadn’t argued with her. Hadn’t pushed her for more than she was willing to give.
He’d just walked away.
And she’d let him go.
She’d given him time. Space. Had kept her distance from him for two weeks, sitting at another table at lunch, avoiding him between classes. Staying home instead of taking the chance of running into him at a basketball game or party. She hadn’t called him or lingered by his locker after school.
She’d waited. Waited for him to make the first move, to be the one to mend the fracture in their relationship.
The one he’d caused.
The one she’d had no choice but to widen.
It’d been hard, the hardest thing she’d ever done, staying away from him. But it’d been her penance.
She’d hurt him. And it didn’t matter that she hadn’t meant to. That she hadn’t wanted to.
All that mattered was getting them back to where they’d been before. To how they’d been.
It’d worked. Eventually. After seventeen long, lonely, heartbroken days, Urban had finally, finally come back to her.
He’d said hey.
Not exactly a declaration of undying loyalty and friendship—nor was it an apology for putting them into that horrible situation or forgiveness for the pain she’d caused—but she’d seen it for what it was.
A start.
His way of letting her know he was ready to get back to how they’d been.
His way of letting her know they were going to be okay.
Not that they’d been able to jump back into their friendship as if nothing had happened. They’d gone slowly, almost starting over with their friendship. First with greetings at school. Then quick, inane chats about homework and their families and the latest school gossip. It’d taken another week before he agreed to her oh-so-casual suggestion that they hang out. And now, all these weeks later things still weren’t quite how they used to be. They no longer spent the entire weekend together. He didn’t call her as often.
He didn’t look at her like he used to, quick, guilty, longing glances that made her heart race with equal parts excitement and fear.
And if she shared today’s revelation with him, it would change everything.
Again.
For good.
God, just the idea of telling him she’d suddenly and inexplicably decided she wanted to take their friendship out of the platonic level and into the boyfriend/girlfriend one was ludicrous.
Ludicrous and risky and selfish, thinking she needed to share this little golden nugget of information simply because it’d thrown her into a tizzy and taken away her peace of mind.
Because she wanted to hear him say he felt the same. And that he always would.
She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. Not now. Not when their friendship was still so fragile.
For all she knew, these feelings weren’t real anyway. Her reaction to Urban’s smile, those pesky urges to climb and bite and lick him, were probably just a fluke. A once in a lifetime deal brought on by her surging hormones and budding sexuality. Complicated by how stupid hot he was with his floppy hair, broad shoulders and those rock-hard abs.
But then she heard a sound behind her and turned and there he was and something inside of her clicked, like a key fitting into a lock, and she knew with a bone jarring certainty that everything she’d just tried to convince herself was complete and total bullshit.
Knew that, despite all her pretending and the many lies she’d told herself, deep down she’d always known this day would come. The dynamic of her friendship with Urban had been changing for months. For years. Where there’d only ever been friendship, there was now an awareness of each other as a boy and a girl. An attraction that was as dangerous as it was undeniable.
That had been her mistake. Trying to deny it. Wanting so desperately to pretend it didn’t exist.
Being so afraid of it.
When it was becoming clearer and clearer that every interaction they’d had, every conversation, every minute spent together had been leading to this moment.
This truth.
Their truth.
Telling him how she felt might be selfish, but it wasn’t wrong. Nothing between them could ever be wrong.
“I changed my mind,” she blurted as Urban stepped into the room carrying two cans of Coke.
His eyebrows drew together. “You don’t want a drink?”
She shook her head. Crossed her arms. “No. Yes.” Uncrossing her arms, she blew out a breath. “Yes, I want the drink.”
She needed it. Needed something to soothe the nerves drying her throat. To wash away the metallic taste of fear on her tongue. Was this how Urban had felt on Valentine’s Day? Like everything he needed say was lodged inside his chest, expanding with every breath until he felt like a balloon ready to pop.
Like he was about to fall off a cliff but couldn’t stop himself from creeping closer and closer to the edge.
He’d been so brave. So honest. He deserved her courage in return.
He set one can of pop on his nightstand, then opened the other and handed it to her.
Testing herself, testing them both, she deliberately trailed her fingertips over the back of his hand. He inhaled, soft and quick, his entire body going still.
She stepped closer. Noted the surprise in his eyes. The wariness.
The flicker of attraction carefully and quickly banked.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice unintentionally husky but the flirtatious, under the lashes look she gave him was premeditated as all get out.
With a sharp nod, he slid his hand free, then opened his own soda and took several long gulps, his head tipped back, his throat working. His hand trembling.
And just like that, her nerves soothed into certainty. Her fear melted away.
She set her pop on the windowsill, then wiped her damp palms down the front of her jeans as she moved toward him. But as usual, for every step forward she took, he took one back.
“Please don’t run from me,” she said softly. “Not now.”
Please don’t make me chase you.
Please, please don’t let me be in this alone.
He immediately stilled, his shoulders going rigid, his mouth thinning. “I’m not the one who runs,” he said, then swore softly as if he could take the words back. Take back the quiet hint of scorn in them. The accusation. The hurt and anger.
But she didn’t want him to keep any of it from her. She’d face it all, accept it as her due and prove to him that he could trust her not to hurt him again.
Prove to him that she was worth waiting for.
“I’m done running,” she told him.
He twitched, his entire body vibrating with some barely suppressed emotion and she recognized it, that longing to flee, to escape. To hide from the unknown.
But he didn’t. He stayed there, right there, eyes on hers, open and waiting, not moving so much as an inch as she slowly, steadily, closed the distance between them. He stayed to prove his earlier words. To show he wasn’t a coward.
He stayed because she’d asked him to, despite still being hurt. Still being angry.
He stayed and that was all it took to set her words free.
“What I said before about changing my mind, I meant about…” She stopped. Swallowed, then licked her lips, her stomach tumbling pleasantly when his gaze followed the motion. “I meant about us.”
But the words meant to set her free, seemed to lock him inside himself. She could feel him withdrawing, shutting his thoughts and feelings away. Keeping them from her.
“Pushing you away like that on Valentine’s Day, saying those things,” she continued in a rush of fast, unsteady words, “was a huge mistake. And it wasn’t true. What I said about…about not thinking of you that way. I do. I was just…I was scared. I mean, no couple lasts beyond high school, right? The chances of that happening are so slim and I just didn’t…I didn’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you. Not ever. But I…I like you, Urban. I like you, as more than a friend. I like you so, so much.”
It didn’t even come close to adequately conveying what she felt for him, how big, how all-consuming and important she was only now realizing it was.
But it was a start. Another one.
She’d give him more, of course. She’d give him her thoughts and feelings and her heart.
She’d give him everything.
As soon as he gave her something, too.
Except he didn’t. He didn’t smile or say he forgave her. He didn’t gently remind her how his parents had been together since they were fourteen and that if they could make it for so long, surely he and she could. He didn’t take her hand or touch her arm.
He didn’t tell her he still liked her, too.
Instead he shook his head. As if trying to deny everything she’d said.
As if refusing to accept it.
He lifted his free hand as if to reach for her, only to curl his fingers into his palm and slowly lower it back to his side. “Willow…”
No. No, no, no, no. This was all wrong. He wasn’t supposed to look like that, conflicted and uneasy. Like he wished he was anywhere else but here having this conversation.
Like he wished he was with anyone else but her.
He wasn’t supposed to say her name that way, soft and gruff and filled with regret.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not when she’d finally accepted her feelings for him. When she’d finally been brave.
When she’d finally given herself permission to go after what she really wanted.
This was her fault. She’d hurt him and he wasn’t ready to forget. Wasn’t quite ready to forgive. But she could change that.
She could fix this.
Heart racing, she set her hands on his shoulders and rose onto her toes, lifting her face to his. He stiffened and made a sound, but it wasn’t until she pressed against him—thighs, belly and chest—that she realized it wasn’t an encouragement, but a rebuff.
Wasn’t until his fingers tightened on her shoulder that she realized he wasn’t drawing her closer, but was trying to hold her back.
Wasn’t until she kissed the hard ridge of his jaw that she knew she’d just made a huge, horrible mistake.
Stumbling back, she bowed her head and hugged her arms around herself. Humiliation swamped her, a hot wave of embarrassment and nausea that had sweat breaking out along her lower back and bile bubbling up her throat.
He’d turned away from her. Given her his cheek, like she was his great-aunt Ida with her chin-whiskers and garlic breath.
“Willow,” he said again, stepping toward her, but now it was her to turn to lead their dance.
His one step forward. Her two steps back.
“I don’t…I thought…”
I don’t understand.
I thought you wanted me.
He glanced at the floor, his hard grip denting his soda can. “I can’t,” he said, so gently, with so much kindness it made her want to weep.
Gentleness. Kindness. But not regret. Not doubt.
“If you’re trying to hurt me,” she whispered, her throat raw, her nose stinging with unshed tears, “it’s working.”
“I’m not. I swear.”
She snorted, but it came out closer to a sob. “No? Because this feels a lot like payback.”
“It’s not.” He stared down at the can in his hands as if looking for his next words there. “I’m with Miranda now.”
Willow jerked, like a puppet on a string. Glanced up to make sure she wasn’t one for real.
That Miranda Watterson wasn’t the one pulling the strings.
Ever since Miranda and her family moved to Mount Laurel last fall, she’d had her sights set on Urban. Flirting with him every-freaking-time she saw him, batting her heavily mascaraed eyes and flipping her long, honey-colored hair. Always finding an excuse to touch him or brush her perfect body against him.
She was Satan in a Mount Laurel High cheerleader outfit and now she’d gotten her pom-poms on Urban.
“When?” she asked, the word strangled.
He shifted. Rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “We’ve been hanging out for a few weeks.”
Weeks. He and Miranda had been spending time together for weeks and she hadn’t known.
Because they hadn’t been spending as much time together. Because he hadn’t been talking to her, the girl who’d been his best friend since the third grade. But he had found the time to hang out with a girl he’d only known a few months.
She hadn’t known, hadn’t heard it from any of their shared friends because Urban had kept it a secret.
He’d kept it from Willow.
She wanted to smack him.
But then, she also wanted to sit on the floor and cry her eyes out, so obviously her emotions or her reactions to those emotions couldn’t be trusted at the moment.
“But…it…uh became official,” he continued, still not meeting her eyes, “last night.”
And he blushed so hard, she was surprised his hair didn’t turn bright red.
She was far from an expert in the goings on inside the male teenage brain, but she could guess what, exactly, had transpired between him and Miranda that’d suddenly put them into coupledom.
What made him blush like that. What made him look so guilty.
She could guess, but for some inconceivable, messed-up reason, she wanted to know for sure. “Did you…did you have sex with her?”
The color in his cheeks deepened. “We’re together,” he said quietly. Firmly.
She hadn’t expected a confirmation. Not really. Urban was too sweet, had too much respect for girls to ever talk about something so personal.
But he was also too honest to lie. And if it wasn’t true, he would’ve denied it.
Five weeks ago he’d stood on her porch and looked at her as if she meant something special to him. He’d told her he liked her. That he wanted to be with her.
And last night, he screwed another girl.
Tears came, so swift and hot, she choked on them. Ducking her head, breathing shallowly through her mouth, she whirled around, frantic with the need to escape. Everything inside of her was twisted and snarled into a knot of anger and humiliation, betrayal and pain. And a bone-deep sense of loss that wound its way through them all.
Spying her backpack on the floor near his dresser, she dove for it.
“You said you didn’t like me that way,” Urban reminded her, his soft tone somehow managing to sound confused and irritated and apologetic all at once. “You said we’d only ever be just friends.”
She swept her backpack up and clutched it to her chest like a shield, keeping her back to him. Yes, yes, that was exactly what she’d said. This was her own fault for being so scared. For waiting too long.
But it was his fault, too. For trying to change things between them. For saying those things to her in the first place.
For not meaning them.
She swallowed. Sniffed. Then finally faced him.
He made a sound, like he’d just been punched in the stomach.
As if seeing her cry tore him up inside.
But it didn’t. It couldn’t. Or else he never would have hurt her this way.
“This never happened,” she said thickly, wiping her hand over her wet cheeks. “Valentine’s Day…now…” She shook her head. “None of it.”
He frowned. Took a step toward her. “We can’t pretend—”
“It never happened,” she repeated, stepping back, her voice breaking. “We’re going to go back to how we were. How we’ve always been and we aren’t ever going to even think about changing it. We aren’t going to talk about this. We’re not even going to think about it because it…never…happened.”
His mouth was flat, refusal written all over his face.
But he wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn.
“Promise me you’ll forget this,” she said. “That we’ll always be friends and nothing more. That you’ll never want us to be anything more. Not ever again. Promise me,” she continued in a whisper, forcing out the words that were so hard for her to say, “or else our friendship ends. Right here. Right now. Forever.”
Eyes narrowed, jaw tight, he studied her. Whatever he saw must have convinced him she meant every word she said because he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Opened them and nodded once.
But she needed the words. “Say it.”
“I promise,” he ground out from between grit teeth, a reluctant vow that wasn’t the least bit sincere.
Sincere or not, it’d do.
Because Urban would never go back on a promise.
Movements jerky, she walked past him to the bed. She shoved her geometry book into her bag, then threw in her pencil. Grabbed her jacket from the back of his desk chair and hurried out the door.
And told herself the sinking sensation in her stomach when he didn’t try and stop her was relief.
Back to lying to herself once again.
Lying to him, as well. Guess it was going to become a habit, after all.
Because there was no way she’d be able to forget what’d just happened. How much it hurt.
She couldn’t go back to how they’d been. Not completely. Today had been filled with truths and realizations and a hefty dose of miserable reality.
She was Urban’s. She was afraid she always would be.
But he’d never be hers.
And she’d just have to learn how to live with that.