Page 10 of Older

Nodding, he reached out and wrapped long, warm fingers around my palm. “Reed.”

My airways narrowed to a stifling pinpoint. Palms clasped, grip soft yet soul-churning, I felt heat flare from the tips of my fingers and whiz up my arms, staining my neck in a pink flush. I didn’t want to let go. A single touch was like a sunbeam neutralizing my blackened veins.

When we finally pulled apart, it felt like a heavy loss.

We both took a sip of our drinks at the same time, eye contact still holding. I racked my brain for more words, something to break the silence, something to keep him talking. To keep him interested in a broken, directionless girl like me. “Want to browse through Jay’s CD collection?”

Reed hesitated, the beer bottle mid-journey to his lips as a spark of interest glowed in his gaze. “Sure.”

“Okay.”

A grin hiked up his lips. “Okay.”

Chugging back the rest of the beer, Reed rose to his feet, then leaned over me as my curious eyes lifted to his.

He was so handsome.

Taller than I’d first noted when he’d been standing at the edge of the shoreline.

Even more staggering than he was five seconds ago.

“Come on, Comet.” A hand extended toward me to help me off the floor. “You can tell me the rest of your favorite songs.”

The name processed like a drain trying to swallow down the swampy lake water.

Comet.

Something happened to me.

Something devastating and beautiful unfurled inside my chest.

No one had ever given me a sweet nickname before. Father called me a brat. A waste of space. A disease, a low life, a worthless nobody. Even my mom never referred to me by my first name.

I wondered if maybe she’d forgotten it.

But Reed had just called me Comet, and that was exactly what it’d felt like as the name soared past his lips. A bright, cosmic phenomenon lighting up my insides and colliding with my heart.

I sucked in a breath, discarded my cup, and raised my hand to his.

Our palms locked.

Warm, tingly, transcendent.

Reed didn’t realize it, but as I took his hand and he tugged me up from the ugly brown carpeting of Jay Jennings’ bedroom floor, he took my whole life in his.

I felt it.

I was certain of it.

I stumbled on my clodhopper heels, to which he planted a firm hand to the center of my back to steady me. I had to force back the wince after Father had left me with painful stripes of slow-healing bruises from his belt.

“You good?” A frown creased his forehead when I stiffened at his touch.

“Great.”

Eyeing me for a beat, he bobbed his chin, then dropped his hand before turning toward the shelving units crammed with CDs.

I followed, my focus aimed at his back.

---