Page 93 of Chaos

The man flush against me hums.

When I tilt my head back, I’m not greeted by the same relieved expression I’m sure I wear. No, I find furrowed brows. Teeth buried in a full bottom lip. Eyes scrunched shut that abruptly open when they sense my gaze, flashing darkened irises and blown pupils.

If I thought my heart was hammering before, it’s nothing compared to how it suddenly picks up the pace. Beneath my palms, another heart does the same—a pair of lungs too. “You’re breathing really fast.”

Finn’s throat bobs. “Uh-huh.”

I swallow just as thickly. “Scared?”

“No, baby. I’m not scared.”

I am. That’s why my heart rate has skyrocketed. Fear of the Webers, that’s all it is. That’s what I want it to be. What I need it to be. Any alternative, I don’t think I could handle—I don’t think I want.

Lie.

Lie, lie, lie.

I’m on the tip of my toes, for some reason. I rose without realizing, without meaning to, without considering the consequences of bringing myself as close to eye-level with Finn as I can get without a fucking step stool, without Finn meeting me halfway.

Which he doesn’t do. He stays perfectly still. Like he is scared after all, scared to move, scared ofme.

I, on the other hand, am not quite as immobile. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t tell my hands to rise, but they do. I’ve never been struck with the urge to caress a man’s face before, to trace the edge of a sharp jawline with the pad of my thumb, but here I am, marvelling at smooth, soft skin.

What am I doing.What am I doing.

What ishedoing? Why isn’t he moving?

Whyishe moving, I think in the next second, when his head suddenly dips.

Out of nowhere, panic slams into me. Knocks me back a step. Makes me blurt, “We should get out of here.”

Finn freezes.

Blinking rapidly, he clears his throat as he straightens.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head again, a smaller movement, like the twitch of someone trying to shake something off. “Right.”

Slowly, he shoulders the door open, peeking his head out to check we’re really alone before stepping out and gesturing for me to follow.

And as I follow him out of the closet, I can’t help but feel like I left something behind.

23

He doesn’t know how to explain to her that he wants more than a closet kiss.

He doesn’t know how to handle the inevitable truth that she doesn’t.

“So they didn’t see you?”

Sticking the manure-covered end of my pitchfork into the dirt, I cock my head at my older sister. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“That’s not funny,” Lux chides, yet she smiles like it’s at least a little funny. Finishing mucking out the stall of a chestnut Morgan so creatively named—wait for it—Morgan, she leans her own pitchfork against the wall. “I’ll sort it out, okay? Thanks for telling me.”

I almost didn’t. Old, hard-to-shake habits urged me to keep my discovery to myself, and I did for a couple of days. But my newfound moral compass pointed me in the honest direction—the last thing I need is to give Lux something else to be mad at me for. “What do you think they were doing?”

Too quickly, Lux shrugs. “Who knows?”

She does, it sounds like. Her voice is way too high-pitched to successfully pull off nonchalance, and if there’s one thing I know how to sniff out, it’s a shitty attempt at a lie. “Is something going on with them?”

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