Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"How was school?" Mom asked, poking her head into my room as I was getting ready for the party. I met her eyes in the mirror in front of me, capping the eyeliner in my hand. She had a nervous look on her face like she knew how hard Valentine's Day might be for me.

Having had two major relationships in my life blow up on Valentine's Day, maybe I really should've just deposited myself in bed with a blanket over my head and waited for it to pass. Maybe Fate would make this year terrible as well. Maybe she was still trying to punish me for attempting to change the meaning of the day in my small little corner of the world. It hadn't worked anyway, so Fate needed to leave me alone.

"It was fine. Good actually. I talked to Jack." Talked, in the loosest sense of the word. We had made contact. After a year, that felt huge.

My mom must've agreed because she stepped all the way into my room, her expression changing to wary hopefulness. "And?" This last year, my mom and I had grown closer. I asked for her time more often. She offered it more freely.

"And it was good. Nice. We're going to the same party tonight where we can talk more."

She smiled. "You've missed him."

I nodded, unable able to speak. My emotions were just below the surface, threatening to spill over and ruin my makeup. "What about you? Big plans for tonight?"

"A glass of wine, a rom-com."

"That sounds nice. Except exchange the wine for a Coke."

"You're not invited." She winked.

"Rude."

"It's okay to be scared, but don't let that keep you from doing things."

"I know," I said with a sigh. "I won't. I have to face whatever is going to happen tonight."

"I'm proud of you. And whatever happens, try to have fun, okay?"

I nodded and as she started to leave, I said, "Hey Mom, are you happy? Like truly happy?"

She smiled at me. "Nobody is happy all the time. But yes, kid, I'm very happy. We made the right choice."

"I'm glad. You seem happy. So does Dad." I still didn't see my dad as much—not all things worked out for the better—but when I did, he seemed lighter.

She walked over and kissed me on the top of the head. "Love you."

"Love you too."

"Where is your game of pin the knife on the heart?" I asked Troy with a smile. He was pouring a bottle of Sprite into some sort of fruity mixture. I'd gotten there early, thinking I could help. But that was a mistake because all I was doing was watching the door.

"That game does not exist at a co-ed party. But I have an even smaller closet than yours that you and Jack can occupy for seven minutes. Just say the word."

"Is that why you herded us in the closet all those times? Because you knew Jack liked me?"

"Not the first time," he said. "The first time was to be funny. And it was. But after I saw how you both reacted then yes, it became about forcing one, or both of you, to admit your feelings."

I looked at the front door again. Did Jack still have those feelings? Or had they died a slow painful death over the last year?

"He's not coming until seven," Troy said, calling me out.

"I know," I said.

But he didn't come at seven. Or seven-thirty. He didn't walk in until seven forty-nine. He was wearing a deep green, long-sleeved shirt with jeans. His hair was tamed, his black framed glasses were on, and he wore a large smile as he greeted the people sitting on the couch in the living room.

I couldn't hear what he said because Troy had the music on louder than I'd ever played it at my parties. And I was sitting on the back patio where a game of ping pong was happening next to me. Like actual ping pong with paddles. No Solo cups involved.

Jack hadn't seen me back here yet, and, considering he was forty-nine minutes late, I decided to stay in my seat and wait for him to come to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him weave through the crowd until he found Troy at the table playing a real-life game of Guess Who. Players would each pick an unaware person in the room and then try to guess who the others picked. I sensed there were going to be some hurt feelings at some point when someone asked something like Is your person always taking selfies? Or Does your person need to get a haircut? But it wasn't my party, so I kept those opinions to myself. I didn't have to control everything.

Jack leaned close to Troy and said something then Troy pointed my way.

I quickly averted my gaze so he didn't see me carefully watching his every move.

I smelled Jack before I saw him. He smelled exactly like he always had: like that green deodorant and those little scent balls he put in the washing machine. He sat on the arm of my chair, his leg millimeters from my hand. I shifted in my chair to look up at him.

"Hi," I said.

"Hey," he returned.

"How's the puppy?"

"Very needy. But I made Topher stay home tonight to watch him. That's why I was late. It was a fight."

I nodded. He stood up to Topher. That was new. Or it could've been a year old; I didn't know. That thought made my throat tighten. He dug something out of his pocket and held it in his palm where I could see it was a wadded-up piece of paper.

"What's that?" I asked.

He meticulously unfurled it, trying not to rip it in the process. When it was mostly back to its original shape, he held it up for me to see. It was the poem I had written and thrown away earlier.

"Where did you get that?" I asked, but I already knew the answer. Either Laney or Troy had dug it out of the trash and given it to him. I already knew they were traitors. "When did you get that?"

"Troy chucked it at my head on the way to my car after school."

"It's supposed to be terrible."

A smile spread across his face. "Mission accomplished."

"It was a joke. To make fun of the ones we hear every year."

"I understood the joke."

"I wrote it before I heard yours."

"Why did it meet such a terrible end?"

The conversation I'd had with Troy while writing the poem flashed through my mind. How I had no idea why Jack had given up on us: jealousy? Unrequited feelings?

And just like that I burst into tears.

His entire demeanor changed from playful to worried. He stood and reached for my hand. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to give it to him. He helped me stand and then led me back inside. He quickly traversed the crowded living room, blocking my body with his. I could tell he thought about stopping in the hall, but that was crowded, too. Suddenly he was pulling open a door and ushering us into a coat closet. He moved some hangers aside, but, still, we barely had enough space to stand. When he pulled the door shut behind us, we were plunged into darkness.

Tears were still streaming down my face. They were hot and salty and—I assumed—black with mascara. I was glad for the darkness. I sniffled.

He felt for my shoulders and when they were in his grip, I melted against his chest. One of his hands went to my back, pulling me close, the other cupped the back of my neck, beneath my hair. A buzzing vibrated through my body, warming me from the inside out.

"I missed you," he said.

"I missed you too. But you shut me in a closet with Micah then didn't talk to me for a year."

"I know. I'm sorry. I was a jerk."

"Why?"

The groan started in his chest before I heard it escape. "Because you'd been pushing me away all year, talking about how terrible love was. I thought that maybe you were trying to tell me to back off, to give you space. I thought I was taking a hint."

I gulped in some air. That's not what I was expecting to hear at all.

"I tried, Scar. I tried to be there for you, but you wouldn't let me. Your bitterness only seemed to grow, and I started to wonder if I was helping to feed it. And that night, seeing you happy with Micah, it broke me. I thought maybe I was bad for you. I just wanted you to feel happy again."

I swallowed hard. He was right, of course. How had I not seen that this was the actual reason he had to walk away? The perfectly valid reason. I had been closed off. For a whole year. Suddenly him taking the first step to mend things with that poem felt like the wrong order. It should've been me.

"Why didn't you reach out to me?" His voice was soft when he asked it.

Now I felt ridiculous. Like I was the one who didn't know him at all. "I thought you were jealous," I said in a small voice. "Of Micah. I thought that you thought I wanted to kiss him or be with him."

His body went still in our embrace.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I was embarrassed when you rejected my kiss. My pride was hurt and I let that fill my head with all sorts of reasons, except the real one apparently, of why you would walk away."

He didn't speak, but he didn't pull away either. A jacket hanging behind him was brushing against my arm and the closet smelled a bit stale, but I didn't want to leave.

"You're angry." I knew this because I did know him. Better than anyone. "And you have every right to be. We should've talked. I should've talked."

"I'm not angry," he said. "Well, a little. But I'm angry at myself too, because I probably did let jealousy play a role in my decision. Not jealousy over Micah, but jealousy that I couldn't be who you needed. But you seem better now... happier?"

"I am, but only because I've worked on myself, not because you left. You leaving..." I choked on a sob.

He adjusted his hold on me, pulling me closer. "I'm not perfect and I know you aren't either, but I want to be in your life. It wasn't the same without you," he said.

I closed my eyes, new hot tears forming. Not sad tears. Happy tears. I was so relieved. "I want to be in your life, too."

His mouth was inches from my forehead, his breath tickling my skin.

I rose up on the balls of my feet, pushing my forehead against his lips.

I felt the sharp inhale he took, his chest rising against mine, rather than heard it. He didn't pull away though, just let his lips brush against my skin, once, then twice.

A curious, questioning hum escaped him, but then his hold on me tightened. This time he made the first move forward, and it wasn't to connect with my forehead. His mouth met mine with an intensity that left no question about what he wanted from this relationship, and it was definitely more than friendship. His other hand joined his first, his fingers on the back of my neck, his palms cupping my jaw.

My hands gripped the sides of his shirt. I could feel the heat radiating off of him. His mouth was soft but sure as it moved on mine. He tilted my head, which was still in his hands, so he could deepen the kiss, his lips parting, his tongue brushing along mine. A jolt of electricity shot through my body and lit my insides on fire.

I moved my hands to his back, pulling him tighter against me as my tongue explored his mouth, tasting him. Then my back was against the door, and he was against me and I knew that we'd waited too long to do this. I should've known he would know how to make every nerve ending in my body sing. He knew me better than anyone. And maybe that's what this was about: not that he knew exactly what to do with his mouth and hands, which he did, but that I felt safe with him. Known. Secure. I felt loved and that made all the difference.

His lips moved from my mouth to my cheek, and then he was hugging me again, burying his head in the crook of my neck and wrapping his arms around my waist in a tight embrace.

"Am I fired for kissing you on Valentine's Day?" he asked softly by my ear. "Should I have waited until tomorrow?"

I let out a breathy laugh. "No, I have let go of my obsession with changing the day. I have accepted it for what it is."

"Consumerism?"

I laughed again. "Well, that too. But no, it's a day to celebrate love."

"Love?" he asked, then straightened up.

"Isn't it?" I wanted to see his face, his expressions, but I couldn't, and I waited, breathlessly for his words in the dark.

"Are you still talking about Valentine's Day?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"You love me?"

"Of course I love you," I said.

"As more than a friend?"

"I just kissed you, Jack."

"I kissed you."

"And it wasn't weird," I said.

He laughed. "It wasn't."

"I really liked your poem. I didn't know you could write poetry."

"Only for you."

I slid my arms around his neck. "I'm glad we get more than seven minutes in the closet this year."