Page 6 of November's Bad Boy: Kacen
But I don’t move.
And neither does he.
Instead, he reaches for his beer, takes a drink, and then sets it down. “Do you ever think about it?” he asks. “Back then?”
I do. Too often. “What would be the point?”
“Maybe to finally say the things we didn’t say.”
I meet his eyes, and there’s a flicker of something there that unravels me a little. “You want honesty?” I ask.
He nods.
“I wanted you to like me,” I admit. “And when you didn’t—when you laughed with your friends instead of standing up for me—I thought there was something wrong with me.”
His jaw tightens.
“But now I realize you were just a coward,” I add. “And I was collateral damage.”
“I was hurting too,” he says, voice low. “It’s not an excuse. But I need you to know that it wasn’t about you.”
“That’s the thing, Kacen. It was about me. Because I was the one left with the fallout.”
There’s a long pause where neither of us speaks. Somewhere inside the community center, Ruby’s playlist shifts to something slow and nostalgic. The kind of song that makes you feel seventeen again in the worst way.
I don’t know who moves first.
Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s me.
But suddenly we're close enough to touch, our breaths mingling in the chilly night air. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape, to run back inside where it's safe from those dark eyes that see too much.
"I never forgot you," he whispers, and the words hang between us like smoke.
I want to step back. I want to remind myself of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. But my body betrays me, leaning toward him.
"Don't," I manage, but my voice lacks conviction.
His hand brushes my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Don't what?"
"Don't make me forget why I hate you."
He studies my face, and I see something crack behind his expression. "Is that what you feel? Hate?"
I wish it were that simple. Hate would be cleaner than this complicated mess of emotions that tangles inside me whenever I look at him.
"I don't know what I feel anymore," I admit.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "That makes two of us."
In the next moment, his mouth brushes mine, tentative and soft, as if he’s waiting for me to change my mind. But I don’t.
I kiss him back.
The kiss deepens, and I'm drowning in a decade of what-ifs and might-have-beens. His hand slides into my hair, careful not to disturb my costume wings, and I grip the front of his shirt like I'm afraid he'll disappear if I don't hold on tight enough.
When we break apart, I'm breathless and confused. My lips tingle, and my heart hammers so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.
"I shouldn't have done that," I whisper, but I don't move away.
