Chapter 19

You’re lying.

– Marcella

“You are a disgrace to humankind,” I murmur as Finn catches his marshmallow on fire.

Puffing, he blows it out and presents the terrible blackened glob. “It’s the fastest way to cook them.”

“If I would break up with a normal boyfriend over this, do I get to break up with you?” I turn my own marshmallow above the flickering flames of the little fire while the big fire blazes a short distance away. Right now, only Finn and I have gravitated to the little flames. Most everyone else—including my parents—have begun slow dancing to the string of gentle songs in the clearing beside the bonfire.

I am desperately waiting for something like “Bullet” by Hollywood Undead to come on and shake things up.

The friend-of-a-friend tactic worked to pack the entire, vast space between the pool and the butterfly garden with people and laughter. This entire night, I’ve been thinking so this is why people like parties.

I don’t think I’ve ever genuinely smiled so much before in my life.

By the time my marshmallow has cooked through, I pull it off the skewer and pass the glorious golden brown delicacy to Finn.

Brows raised, he leans back in his camp chair and looks at my meager offering.

“You’ll never cook a marshmallow in under seven minutes again. This will ruin you for all other options. This… this is the only correct way to roast a marshmallow. And if you don’t agree, I’m sorry, but we are over.”

He chuckles as he slips the marshmallow from my fingers. “No pressure, right?” He takes a bite, and surprise knocks the smile off his face.

Mmmhm.

Many a fool have I toppled where my method of roasting is concerned.

My mother used to think a marshmallow was done when it turned golden brown .

Ha.

Noob.

“Marshmallows expand when they cook. If you want a raw marshmallow, okay fine. But if you want it cooked over a fire ? It needs to be warmed all the way through. The question is: how can you tell it has been? Well, easy. They expand when heated, so it’ll grow to approximately twice the size of a raw marshmallow.” I snuggle up in my camping chair, smug. “Marshmallow science.”

“This is the best marshmallow I have ever had. I can’t believe you broke down how to achieve an optimal roast.”

I shrug. “When you grow up poor, one bag of marshmallows is a nutrient-free luxury. You take great care in deducing how to achieve the most deliciousness out of roasting them over a stove top.”

“Most kids wouldn’t give it that much thought, I think.”

“Most kids would try and catch their marshmallow on fire as though setting it directly on the hot coils wouldn’t result in a sticky, horrible mess. I’m special .”

Finn’s soft smile returns. “Let me guess. You’re describing the behaviors of your brother?”

“I am absolutely describing the behaviors of my brother.” I snort. “Man. He was such an idiot sometimes…” I rally another marshmallow for death and begin the tedious, constant process of turning it for half a decade just out of reach of the flames. “I was, too, obviously, but I’m only admitting it because he can’t speak up for himself.” I glance at the dancing couples, the food, the lights, and the roaring bonfire. “I wonder if he would have loved this as much as I do. It was really hard to tell when he enjoyed something if he wasn’t inclined to tell you. He was a skilled pessimist, and some people are really good at sucking the joy out of everything.” I give my head a shake and turn my attention back to my marshmallow. “Like me. Right now. Talking about my dead brother at a party. Hi. How are you? Having fun? Saw you talking to Cody earlier. And then my parents. I was busy hiding and sobbing into my potato chips, of course, but I hope that went well for you. I’m sure I’ll hear more about it later, but Mom did already beam a Mom look of approval across the yard at me while I was crying. So congrats on that.”

Finn finishes the marshmallow, eyeing me like I’m a puzzle he’s lost the rest of the pieces to. He’s busy searching under my couch cushions and card table, hoping the dog hasn’t absconded with anything important. At last, he says, “For the record, I don’t mind when you talk about your brother. Knowing that you feel comfortable doing so means a lot to me.”

I scoff. “Don’t think it means anything. I’m a diagnosed oversharer. Many an unsuspecting fool has been blessed with the knowledge of my dead brother. I once told a bank teller while I was setting up an account in one of those fancy back rooms. She stood up from her desk and hugged me. It is still singularly the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life.”

Finn coughs, hiding a laugh, as though he has to, as though I don’t see all his sunny sweetness constantly .

I mutter, “Please tell me what happened between you and my parents.”

Biting his lip, he lets his gaze drift skyward. “Well…”

Dread swells in my gut. I cannot imagine why.

“You already briefed them on everything, from our dating arrangement to the fact you’re on all my accounts. Your father did his due diligence in assuring me no number of bodyguards would stop him from taking me down if I hurt you. Your mother apologized for him. And then she apologized for you. Said you were an odd one. Always had been.”

I shrink, just a smidge, and stare at my cooking marshmallow. It’s getting where it needs to. Yay.

“Then she promised me not a one of my bodyguards would find my remains if I took advantage of that. So I dare say the compulsion to provide me with death threats runs in the family.”

Something in my chest eases as I laugh. “You know something? It really makes sense that it’s a genetic trait.”

“Does it now?” Finn watches me while I pull my marshmallow off the prongs and take a bite. Caution coats him, and he circles his fingertip around the plastic of the cup holder in his chair’s armrest. “Marcella.”

I arch a brow.

“I…” He clears his throat. “Well, could you… Would.” He swallows. “Would you…”

“Are you having a stroke?” I ask.

He blurts, “Would you tolerate a dance with me?”

A laugh bursts from the very deepest part of my chest with such force I nearly lose my marshmallow.

Finn nods, gripping his armrest. “Right. Yes. That’s what I thought. Never mind.”

Stuffing the rest of my marshmallow in my mouth, I let my nose wrinkle. “Come on.” I set my skewer down by my chair, take his hand, and drag him away from the blaze, the people, the fairy light circle. I bring him to the butterfly garden, guide him through the arches of flowers that will soon frost away. Pausing at the switch for the fountain lights, I turn on the bubbling centerpiece so an ice blue glow coats the scene.

Beyond the cover of blossoming trees, bushes, and extravagant archways, music, crackles, and voices drift.

“Okay.” I face Finn once we’ve reached the most spacious swathe of grass in between the benches and flowers, beside the fountain’s bubbling gleam. “Pay attention. Here’s what you’re not going to do.”

He stands straight, stiff, stunned smile-less.

I graze his cheek, barely touching, with my fingertips. “Feel that?”

He chokes on the word. “Yes.”

“I hate that. The there but not there sensation sucks . Any touch I’m not expecting sucks , so always give me a head’s up if I can’t see what you’re doing, then…” I grip the back of his neck, letting my nails nip into the base of his skull. “…then make sure you follow through. Be assertive and definite. Don’t worry about hurting me because the soft crap actually hurts worse. If that makes any sense to you at all.”

In the white-blue light of the fountain, he turns compelling shades of red.

“Are you comfortable with what I’m asking for?” I murmur.

“You…want me to be rough with you.” His lungs fill. “Are you comfortable with the intimacy of that request?”

My heart flutters. I search his eyes. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

Before I drop my hand, he grips my wrist, plants it solidly against his shoulder, and scrapes his fingers down my arm, through the long sleeve of my dress. Reaching my waist, he reels me in, hips against his, every finger present through the fabric of my skirt. He takes my free hand in his other. Ballroom style.

I don’t get a moment to laugh and remind him that the extent of my dancing skills begin and end with lamely sway . He bends my fingers back, stretches my pulse, and presses a hard kiss to the beat.

It leaps against his lips.

“Marcella,” he says. His eyes meet mine, torment and desire thick in the darkening blue.

I lose all the feeling in my legs, but he has me. Completely.

When his fingers find my hair, they bury deep and grip fast, baring my throat. A disgraceful sound I’m refusing to dwell on strangles from my mouth.

He dips me, letting gravity pour my weight into his hands. His damp breath runs across my cheek, and I don’t hate it. I don’t . Not even a little.

Voice gravely, he whispers, “May I kiss you?”

Scalding warmth boils beneath my flesh, burning every spot our bodies connect.

He’s got me off balance. Dizzy. Helpless.

I did not at all think he meant this kind of dance.

All I can say is, “I’ve…never been kissed before.”

He tugs on my hair, and I think I lose my soul to him. “My dear.” He nips at my bottom lip. “That was not a no .”

It most definitely was not.

Both my hands skim up his chest, around his neck, and into his auburn locks. I lift myself to his mouth against the pull of his hand in my hair. As our lips connect, urgency consumes the action, pressing his warmth into my body, into my veins. My nerves erupt.

He controls me, guides me, pushes me back until I collapse against one of the benches in front of the fountain. The hard wood bites into my spine as his fingers dive from my hip to my knee, dragging a sensation of presence all the way down my thigh. I swear. He swallows the word.

When he pulls as far back as I’ll let him—which isn’t so far at all—I catch the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.

He’s tousled. Wrinkled. On his knees before me. My skirt is flared and pressing to his jacket as my legs rest around him in a sort of scandalous manner I don’t want to think about.

Flushed, lips parted, he scans my position in relation to his body, from my awkward posture to his grip on my leg. Then…he smiles . Dragging me by my knee against the seat until I’m on the edge, he catches my entire jaw in his palm and looms over me. “That’s my girl.”

A shock zips straight through my chest, frying my nerve endings.

I have never , not once , been anyone’s girl. Ever.

But, right now, I think his assessment is one hundred percent correct…

Moving back, he jerks me fully onto his lap in the grass. The wood presses into my wing bones as both his hands take my wrists prisoner.

He’s stable. Commanding. Assured.

Everything I think I’ve always wanted.

When his fingers slip around mine and clutch, I tremble. When he whispers, “I really like you, Marcella,” I tense.

It is so very, very hard to breathe. “I…would hope so. After all this.”

“I want a life with you.”

My stomach clenches.

“I don’t mind figuring out what that looks like so you can be happy. I don’t mind learning how to fulfill what you need. You destroy me, Marcella.” He kisses my cheek, hard. “Teach me how to love you.”

A shudder pours down my spine, and I lose all the feeling in my body. Pressed—completely—against him like this, I can hardly hear my own thoughts above the hammer of our hearts singing together.

Hoarse, I say, “What haven’t you given me, Finn? What more could I ask for from you?” I wet my swollen lips. “You aren’t the one who needs to be taught anything else if we’re going to work out. I am.”

His head tilts. “Are you saying you’re happy with me? Just as I am?”

I swallow, averting my eyes. “I…don’t know. At the very least I’m saying you’ve put in every effort to meet me where I am, when I haven’t even bothered trying to appreciate it.”

“I don’t like how you talk about yourself sometimes, pumpkin.”

“With honesty?”

“It’s not honest.” Releasing one hand, he hooks a finger in my necklace, then he yanks my face to his. “Being guarded isn’t the same as dismissing me entirely. Countless times over these past few months, I’ve challenged you, and you’ve conceded when you’ve agreed that I was correct. You aren’t stubborn. You aren’t difficult. You aren’t emotionless . You have given me every grace when you have felt safe enough to do so. You are allowed to withhold your emotions concerning me until you feel safe to experience them.”

I might cry.

I really don’t want to.

Lip quivering, I whisper, “But I am stubborn. I’m still sleeping on the couch when there’s something like seventeen beds available.”

The corners of his mouth soften. “You’re not stubborn. You’re spiteful. There’s a difference. And the proof is that you’ll agree with me in a moment.”

I sniffle.

He swipes a thumb beneath my eye, plants his palm firm to my cheek, and drags his short nails against my skull to push my hair back from my face. “Am I wrong?”

My head shakes. “No.” I cave against him, squeezing his hand for strength. “You’re right.”

His arms close around me, tucking me so perfectly against his body. “I love you,” he whispers into my hair.

My heartbeat stumbles.

“I love so much of you. I’d like the opportunity to love you more each day. I’d like you to love me, too, but I never want your love to mean sacrificing any part of who you are. I want an eternity where you tell me anything that’s on your mind without fear I’ll reject you. I want you to snap at me if I’m twisting my chair too much. I want you to scoff and leave the room when you can’t stand being around me. But I always, always want you to come back when you’re ready. No matter how long it takes. I want to know, with complete certainty, that you spend the time with me that you do because you enjoy it. I know you’re happy by yourself. I know you’re capable of so much without me. So…all I’d like is if you could love me enough to choose to be around me every so often when perhaps you would have been just as happy alone. I’d like you to love me enough to choose my arms over anyone else’s when you need someone who knows how to hold you the way you want to be held. I’d like you to love me.” He pauses, and his fist closes against my back, crushing me so tight it’s almost painful. But it’s completely… completely perfect. “I’d like you to love me…because, Marcella, if you love me at all , it will be more than enough.”

My muscles shake as I fight for my every breath, battling to keep the rush of tears pouring down my cheeks silent.

In a single, crashing wave, it’s all too much .

I shove myself out of his arms, tripping as I fight to get on my feet.

I can’t breathe .

I can’t think .

Looking down at him—kneeling, arms open as though awaiting my return—I can’t .

I’m shaking.

I’m frozen through.

My fingers hurt when I try to close them into my palms.

My mouth opens, and I attempt to find a reply that he deserves, something to reassure him that it’s okay, he’s okay, I’m okay; however, I can’t right at this moment, for some reason.

All I can do is knock on the top of his head with my knuckles, turn sharply, and flee.

I want nothing more than to throw myself into the bonfire as I pass, but as I march away from him, through the crowd, and past the tall flames, I refrain. I refrain until the party dies out, and I refrain until I fall asleep, yet again, on the couch .