She’s still fragile from talking about the past. That scared sixteen-year-old who’s always stayed hidden inside is closer to the surface than she usually is, and I’m as bent on making sure she’s all right as I was the first time I saw her.
I brush my fingers along her side, and when I reach the edge of her cactus tattoo, I make the same old joke I always do.
“Ouch,” I mutter, snatching my hand away. “Prickly.”
“Imbécile,” she admonishes, breathing out a laugh.
“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s me.”
I keep stroking her leg until her eyes fall closed and her exhales get slow and steady. I shift to the edge of the mattress, and I’m just about to get up to head into the bathroom when her fingers brush across my back.
“Cole?” The way she rasps my name almost makes me shiver. “Just one week, right?”
I bite back all the things I want to say, all the truths I want to spill on the floor of this hotel room. I hold it all inside, and I give her a promise that will keep her close to me for a few more days, even if it’s not nearly close enough.
Even if I know deep down, this promise is more of a lie.
“Just one week.”
