Page 17 of November's Bad Boy: Kacen
My stomach twists.
“You didn’t deserve that,” I say again, because it’s the only thing that feels true. “None of this was about you. It was always about me. I was too much of a coward to admit I was angry at the wrong person.”
Her voice is low. “You blamed me for your parents splitting up.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I did. My dad cheated with your mom. It led to us moving to Chicago, to my mom getting hooked on drugs, to me falling into the wrong crowd, and to Kingston ending up in jail to save me. I was taken from Mom and placed back here with Dad. And in my head, that turned into this stupid, warped narrative that somehow it was your fault. Because you were there. Because you smiled. Because I didn’t know what to do with the mess inside me. Then I hated myself for how much I liked you, how much I wanted you.”
Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something but doesn’t trust her voice.
“Kingston told me once that real men own their mistakes,” I say. “He said, it’s not enough to feel bad. You have to be better. You have to try again. So I’m trying.”
She nods slowly. “You’re not the boy I knew.”
“Good. I hated that kid.”
I reach first.
It’s my fingers brushing hers on the couch cushion. Just enough to ask the question without words.
She doesn’t pull away. But looks down at our joined hands. “I believe you’re trying.”
That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It feels like air after drowning.
Her eyes meet mine, and a current passes between us— old, aching, and new all at once.
I reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “Can I kiss you?”
She nods, and I lean in, slowly, giving her every chance to stop me.
Our lips meet, and it’s nothing like the first time. This kiss is gentle, careful. Like an apology made of skin and breath. Her fingers slide into my hair, and I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her a little closer.
When we break apart, she keeps her forehead against mine, her breath warm on my lips.
"I hated you so much," she whispers, but her fingers are still in my hair, contradicting her words.
"I know," I say, because there's nothing else to say. No defense I can offer.
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes searching mine, trying to find something. "But I think I wanted you even then. How messed up is that?"
I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone. "Not messed up. Human."
"Human," she repeats, like she's testing the word. "Is that what this is?"
I don't know what to call it—this thing between us that feels too big for my chest, too fragile to name. "This is... whatever you want it to be."
She shifts, pulling her legs up underneath her on the couch. The binder slides to the floor, forgotten. "What if I don't know what I want?"
"Then we figure it out," I say. "No rush."
Natalie looks at me for a long moment, then leans in and kisses me again, harder this time. There's something different in it—a question, maybe. Or an answer I'm not quite ready to hear.
When she pulls back, her eyes are darker. "I think I know exactly what I want right now."
My throat goes dry. "Yeah?"
She nods once, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Before I can process what's happening, she's moving, swinging her leg over mine until she's straddling me on the couch. The sudden weight of her, warm and solid against me, knocks the air from my lungs.
"Nat," I breathe out, my hands automatically finding her hips.
