Page 80 of The Way Back Home

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Olivia

IGLANCE AT THE CLOCK. Three a.m. greets me in a wash of big pale green numbers illuminating my room. I stare at the sheer curtains, so still. There isn’t even a hint of a breeze. I’m so exhausted. The nights seem to stretch out, longer than the days, hotter, lonelier, and my mind won’t ease. It’s been three days since Josiah left, and not a single second has gone by that I haven’t been worried sick about where he is. It’s been five days since that incredible sex with August, and aside from him comforting me when Josiah was taken away, we’ve barely said a word to one another.

Frustrated, I kick the sheet from off the end of the bed and sit up. I can’t bear this heat anymore. I can’t bear to lie here a moment longer staring at the ceiling, as if it holds the answers to my questions, so I rise and reach for the lightest robe I have. I guess it shouldn’t really matter. Everyone is asleep, there are no longer two hormonal teens occupying the house, and the only man who I should be concerned about seeing me in my unmentionables isn’t as affected by me as I am by him.

I forgo the robe, open my door, and creep downstairs. I don’t bother turning on the lights; I don’t want to wake anyone, so I navigate my way in the dark toward the kitchen. Once there, I open the fridge and pull out the milk. I press my nose to the mouth of the bottle and inhale, then I take a swig.

“Not everyone wants your cooties, you know? You should use a glass,” he says, and I about jump out of my skin. I gasp and whirl around to find August sitting at the dining table, feeding me the same lines I once said to him from that very position.

I press my free hand to my chest, breathing far too rapidly. “You scared the shit outta me.”

He chuckles and kicks out the chair opposite him. Zora lifts her head from the floor to glance at me, but relaxes and goes back to sleep beside August’s feet. I grab myself a glass and sit. August is shirtless, that much I can see in the slither of moonlight spilling in the kitchen window. It’s a sight I never get used to seeing—how beautiful he is, how every line and angle seems to be carved from marble. Solid and unyielding, just like the man within. A frisson of heat moves through me, and I remember being pressed between the hardness of him and this very table.

August takes the carton from my hand and pours the milk. He pushes a packet of cookies towards me.That bastard’s been eating my Oreos. I take one from the plastic and separate it, peeling off the creamy filling and popping it in my mouth before sandwiching the two halves together and dunking them into my glass. He watches all this closely, as if I fascinate him.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask when I’m done chewing. He shakes his head. “Me either. What are you doing sitting down here all alone in the dark?”

“I don’t know. Thinkin’. Wishing I had something stronger than milk to drink. Wishing I didn’t turn into an asshole when I did take a sip.”

“An asshole? You?” I tease.

“Very funny,” he says, pouring himself another round.

“Well, we’ve covered the wishing part, but you haven’t told me what you’re thinking about.”

“I think I’ve never been so lost, yet so found, as I am now. As I’ve been since you came barging in my door.”

I’m floored by this admission. I don’t have any idea what to say to that, so I do what I always do when it comes to August.Avoid, avoid, avoid. “Barging? I’ll have you remember, mister, that I walked away. I was content to sleep with the coyotes that night, but you practically dragged me back, kicking and screaming to your door.”

“I don’t remember any kicking and screaming. You barely put up a fight at all.” He grins, his teeth a bright flash of white in the darkness.

For a long time, we say nothing. The silence stretches out between us, yawning into the night, swallowing what little peace we’ve found in this moment. I look away, stare at my hands on the tabletop, the table we made love on. Though I suppose you couldn’t really call it making love. Because he doesn’t love me, that much is clear. If he did, he’d be suffering as much as I am right now. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the anger that twists in my gut like a worm on a hook.

“Are we going to ignore it forever?” The words are sharper than I intend, and they slice through the silence as if they were a roar, bitter and bruised with frustration.

His whole body stills. “No.”

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