"It's not what you're thinking," he says, resting his arms atop the fence beside where I'm sitting.
Out of all the things he could say to me, this is the one he chooses to start with. I shouldn't be surprised. I'm the one who keeps believing that night shredded him the way it did me.
"Oh, don't give me that bullshit. The whole she's-not-my-girlfriend shit may have worked in high school, but it doesn't now. We're adults. Your mouth was on hers. That means you're with her. Period."
"Fine," he grinds out, jaw clenched as he yanks his hat lower. We sit rigidly side by side while Madison performs, the silence between us electric and suffocating before he finally adds, "I wasn't trying to hurt you."
"Just stop talking. I don't care to hear more lies."
"I'm not lying," he defends adamantly.
"You knew I was there, which means you knew there was a chance I would see."
"And what about you showing up in that yellow dress?" he's quick to snap back, his tone sharp and terse, letting me know my dress of choice hit the mark as intended. "On the arm of mybrother, nonetheless. You aren't exactly a picture of innocence," he says gruffly.
"Are you implying I made you kiss Madison?"
I catch his face turning toward me from the corner of my eye, and I find the strength to meet it. His dark eyes are hard, confirming he's mad I'm here, mad I wore that dress, mad I caught him kissing another woman, but as our eyes remain locked, I watch his anger fracture into something worse. Those hard eyes soften into something more dangerous than rage—recognition, remembrance, possibility. His silence hangs between us. A yes would be unexpected; it would be an admission unfitting of the new man he's determined to make me see, the one who no longer thinks about me. But he also doesn't give me a no—a no that could finally set me free.
"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here? Why I'm not in prison?"
I turn back to the performance I'm here to watch and grant him the silence he gave me. Do I want his answers? Desperately. But saying so means admitting that I still think about him, that he still occupies the darkened corners of my mind I've fought so hard to reclaim. I want all his words, ones I rightfully deserve, but not here, not while I'm perched precariously on this wooden fence, watching his new girlfriend defy gravity on the back of a thundering horse, her body executing remarkable feats that would be mesmerizing if I could feel anything beyond the suffocating weight of his presence beside me.
I pull air through my nose and roll my lips together as I search for the right response, when every possible word feels like walking onto a minefield. It feels like a cruel competition to see who will surrender first, who still cares enough to shatter this brittle silence between us. But then the backs of his fingers skim across my thigh, and even through my riding pants, there's an instantaneous, electric hum that follows a white-hot buzz surging through my veins like wildfire. Just one touch, that's all it takes, and I'm drowning inhim all over again, every carefully constructed defense crumbling to dust.
"Laney, I asked you a question." His voice wraps around my name like it has no right too.
Feeling the traitorous tears gathering behind my eyelids, I slam them shut. Damn it.
Chapter 16
LONDON
What am I doing? I shouldn't have touched her. Fuck, why did I touch her? When she is near, my mind is useless; every rational thought evaporates. I should have learned my lesson outside those bathrooms the other day, when grabbing her arm to stop her triggered that same devastating electrical current. One touch and all my carefully constructed walls crumble to dust.
She still takes my breath away. My heart thunders in my chest, outpacing Gypsy's stride in the arena. I despise being this hollow version of myself, the one who no longer belongs to her. It's yet another reason I can't stand her being here. Every second in her presence is exquisite torture, a reminder of everything I've lost and everything I can't reclaim. It's killing me to exist as anything other than hers.
Seeing her at the wedding was a special kind of hell where I could look but never touch, speak but never say what screamed inside me. Even now, with her sitting mere inches away in those goddamn riding pants that hug every curve and a navy t-shirt that clings to her like a second skin, my treacherous hand moves of its own volition. Her body still calls to mine like a siren song, magnetic, primal, as though she's still mine to touch, mine to hold, mine to worship all over again.
Her eyes bore into mine with the same penetrating gaze that always made me feel exposed. I can't help but wonder if she remembers everything with the same excruciating clarity that I do, every whispered promise, every shared secret, every moment our bodies spoke a language only we understood. It's beyond fucked up for me to want her to carry these memories, considering it wouldn't change anything, but inside, I'm screaming,love me, choose me, love me back the way you used to.
Instead, her voice cuts through my internal plea, cool and detached. "I'm more interested in how you're related to Trigg."
And just like that, I'm reminded why my heart can no longer beat for her, but neither can Trigg's.
"You can't date him," I snarl, wholly peeved with her response. It's been years since we've seen each other, since I was ripped out of her arms, and all she cares about is my brother.
"You can't tell me who I can date," she says plainly, as though my demand means nothing to her, further infuriating me.
"I can. He's my brother," I argue back intensely, attempting to force her to see it my way.
"So," she says, eyes forward, watching Madison and Abbey perform as though our conversation is an inconvenience.
Fine, if she wants to play it that way, so be it. I'll spell it out for her so she remembers everything I haven't forgotten. "So, every time you look at him, it's me you'll see, it's my taste you'll be searching for on his lips, and when he's in your bed, it's me that will be in your head."
She purses her lips, and when her gaze swings back to mine, I see challenge in her eyes. I don't know if it's rooted in the same jealous envy that mine is, or if she remembers just fine and hates the reminder, but her words don't miss. "Sounds like you're talking from experience. You never did answer me earlier… Tell me, London, when you were kissing your girlfriend last night after you saw me in that dress, was it my mouth or hers?"
I feel the muscles in my jaw flex, and I resist the urge to sayyours.It doesn't change anything, so instead, I ask, "You're really not going to ask me why I'm here?"
