Page 63 of Ghosts Don't Cry
She twists the cap off the bourbon, and lifts it to her lips to take a swallow. When she coughs, tears springing to her eyes, I laugh quietly, surprising us both. Taking it from her, I take a mouthful. It burns going down, but it warms my entire body. When she takes the bottle back, her fingers brush against mine, adding a new kind of heat.
The factory creaks around us, and through the window I look at the stars. The same stars I used to watch from my bedroom window … back when I had a bedroom, anyway.
We sit together, passing the bottle back and forth without speaking, until the numbness in my fingertips and nose is from the alcohol rather than the cold. Then she moves, dragging her bag between her legs and pulling it open again. She hesitates when she pulls out two parcels. One wrapped in newspaper—the book review section, because of course she’d think of that detail.
“You didn’t need to?—”
“I wanted to.” She places it between us. “Just open it. Please?”
The paper comes away easily, revealing a leather-bound notebook.Realleather. The expensive kind meant to last, with pages that won’t tear or bleed through when you write. The kind I’ve stood in front of at the bookstore, running my fingers over the covers but never had the money to buy. It’s nothing like the cheap ones I usually steal from the local general store. When I flip it open, I discover she’s written inside the cover.
Your words matter.
I swallow hard, my throat closing up. This is more than a gift. It took thought. Planning and money she probably saved from her allowance. It’s proof that someone thought about me.Caredenough to give me something that will last.
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t comment on the thickness in my voice. Instead, she hands me the second parcel. This one is wrapped in a brown paper bag. When I open it, two pairs of thick woolen gloves and a hat fall out.
I reach for the bottle and take a healthy gulp. That way I can blame the bourbon for the wetness in my eyes.
We pass the bottle between us again, each sip taking the edge off the silence. At some point, she ends up sitting closer, her shoulder pressed against mine. The contact should make me want to run, but it feels less threatening than it should, and more comfortable than I want to admit.
“Tell me something real.” Her words have a slight slur to them. “Something about today.”
The bourbon makes the truth easy to share. “Thought I’d be dead by now.”
Her hand finds mine, and the contact makes me snap rigid. The instinct to pull away is immediate, but she doesn’t tightenher grip or try to hold onto me when I tense. Her fingers thread through mine, warm against my cold skin, patient as though she’s waiting for my response.
I breathe through the alarms ringing in my head, and don’t pull away. Her fingers squeeze mine gently.
“I’m glad you made it to eighteen.”
Her thumb traces patterns over my wrist, and the touch sends warmth up my arm. No one has touched me like this in years. Every touch I can remember has been clinical at best, violent at worst. But this is different. This is a choice she’s making, a gift she’s offering without demanding anything in return.
She turns slightly, lifting her head. There’s a question in her eyes, one I’m not sure I’m reading right. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, then she leans toward me, slowly, giving me every opportunity to turn away.
Her lips brush mine, hesitant, unsure how I’ll react. The taste of bourbon lingers on her lips, but it’s the soft press of her mouth that has the harder impact. My pulse pounds in my ears, the press of her lips unraveling something inside me that I didn’t know was wound so tight.
It’s different from what I imagined kissing would be like. It’s not like it is in the movies. There’s nothing smooth or practiced about it. There’s an uncertainty in the way her lips part, and how she waits for me to meet her halfway.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I don’t think she does either. She waits for me to figure it out. When I tilt my head and kiss her back, she sighs against my lips, a small sound that sends heat through my body.
I don’t move to touch her in any other way. We’re connected by our lips only, and her fingers linked with mine. It’s enough.Morethan enough. More than I ever thought I’d have.
By the time we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the warmth of her breath against my face.
“Happy birthday, Ronan.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
LILY
Three days have passedsince the grocery store. I’ve caught glimpses of him around town—loading supplies at Wilsons, getting coffee at The Jittery Squirrel, driving past the school when I was leaving.
Three days of pretending I don’t care.
By Friday afternoon, my classroom is chaos. Spilled paint, glitter bombs, band-aids on imaginary injuries. I’m ready for the week to be over. I want to go home, change into my pajamas and curl up with a book or a feel-good movie, but I already made plans with Cassidy.
