Page 6 of Holding On To Good

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.”

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, his expression closing, his shoulders going rigid.

“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 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 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 those feelings were.

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, he and she could, too. 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.

“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.

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