Page 97 of Book and Ladder
She avoids my eyes. I watch her—because I can’t look away.
When I find the loose end, I say, “Here. This should work.”
She snatches it out of my hand, climbs up one more step and loops the end through the hole at the top of the pole.
“Walk away, O’Connell,” she commands as she descends the ladder.
From you? I don’t think I can.
I stand in place and she shakes her head. “Toward the next pole?”
“Oh. Yes. Are you sure you want to be the one looping the rope through?”
“Want? I want to live in a world where we didn’t ever … Where you … Where I … Ugh. Yes. I’m sure. You just stand there, being tall and handing me the bunting when I’m ready.”
Her tone is so resolute and commanding, I almost salute her.
Instead, I trail her for the next half hour—close enough to catch the swish of her ponytail, the scrape of her boots on the ladder rungs, the sounds of her sighs. Each time she stretches above me, I have to clamp my hands around the bunting to stop myself from steadying her. White-knuckled restraint masquerading as unaffected helpfulness.
Our kiss hangs between us, invisible yet threaded into every brush of our fingers, every awkward silence, every small gust of air when she steps down and I almost—but don’t—reach to catch her.
When did I become a man so bound in messy entanglements? Maybe the second I kissed Daisy. Maybe the moment she kissed me back. Maybe when I agreed to let my online world bleed into the real one. Either way, I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.
Tomorrow, M&M will be waiting right here. At least one woman is looking forward to seeing me.
Chapter 26
Daisy
If you are not too long,
I will wait here for you all my life.
~ Oscar Wilde
I sent a DM to BTTP—finally.We haven’t talked since my invitation to the Fall Festival and his acceptance. He told me he’d come in costume, but he’d make himself known. A masquerade. Thinking about meeting him has me on pins and needles in the best of ways—like someone plugged me into a high-voltage outlet.
I’m alone in my apartment, my long work day behind me—my laptop open, sitting on my crossed legs, drumming my fingers on my knee, BTTP’s silence taunting me.
My hand floats to my lips for the thousandth time this week since Patrick ambushed me and I lapsed into a fugue state. A complete blackout is the only explanation I have for what happened. That, or I unknowingly suffer from multiple personality disorder. But, if that were the case, my otheroutlandish, impulsive personality would hold the all-too-tangible reminders of Patrick’s lips on mine. Unfortunately, I’m the keeper of the vivid memories. When I close my eyes, I hear his whispers. If I touch my wrist, I feel his grip around me, surprisingly gentle. Steady. Intent.
I push the thoughts aside.
So what, we kissed?
I kiss my relatives.
A laugh almost bursts out of me into the emptiness of my living room. As if what Patrick and I did was anything like a kiss to my cousin’s cheek.
Who am I kidding? Patrick’s kiss was electric, otherworldly, consuming. But that’s not the point. I’m going to meet the host ofBurning Through the Pages—a man who is thoughtful and bookish, funny and intelligent. He’s constantly on my mind. That has to mean something. Patrick and his kiss mean nothing.
I glance at my computer screen. My message still sits there, unanswered.
M&M:Hard to believe we’re actually meeting soon.
I’m about to give up and shut my laptop when his cursor blinks to life.
BTTP:Yeah. It’s crazy. And by crazy, I mean a good crazy. Anticipation like the night before the first day of school … or Christmas.
