Chapter 22

“Fireworks are starting soon.” Vince informs me, and I stand up from the Adirondack chair with his help, and he tips his head toward the house. “Let’s go to the roof.”

“The roof?”

He indicates the flat part above the garage then to the higher portion next to it. “Used to climb out from my bedroom window.”

“You snuck out a lot?” I ask, moving slowly from the wine.

He laces his fingers with mine and shrugs. “A few times. Sometimes, I’d sneak in. Until Mom caught me trying to get Amanda Bittmeir to climb up.”

I tuck my face into his shoulder, buzzed enough not to be jealous of stupid Amanda Bittmeir.

“Haven’t been on the roof for a while, though,” he goes on, leading me inside the house and upstairs. “Thought you might like the view better from up here.”

He opens the door to a bedroom at the end of the hall. With the navy walls and some memorabilia still around, it very clearly used to be his. I help myself to lounging on the bed as he opens the sliding closet doors to snag a thick quilt then leans over me for the pillows, his eyes roving over me. He smells of pine and the outdoors. I’m reminded of the time I was in gym class, sprawled out on the grass after “running” on the track. For some reason or another, Vince was speaking to the teacher and ended up flopping down next to me, our faces turned toward each other, his smile boyish, my heart leaping.

For a moment, I think he’s going to lie next to me now, but he only crosses the room to the window, shoving it up and open with one hand before tipping his head for me to get up.

“Go foot first,” he instructs. “The roof’s still pitched here, so be careful.”

When I make it out, he smiles. “Attagirl.”

Then he tosses the pillows and quilt out, easily ducking his long frame through the window. With everything in hand once again, he helps me hop down to the flat roof of the garage, where he creates a makeshift bed for us.

Below us, sparklers flicker, tiki lights shine, and voices carry, but up here, it’s muted, with the overhead sky nearly black. Like we’re in another world.

“Here, come here,” Vince says, opening his arm up to me so I’ll sidle next to him. I don’t hesitate.

Maybe because it is so dark on the roof, it doesn’t feel real.

“I’m glad you agreed to come with me today.”

“Me too.” Our thighs rub against each other, and my pulse pounds everywhere. In my wrists. My throat. My chest. Between my legs.

He inches even closer, his breath hot on my bare shoulder. “And I’m really sorry I made you uncomfortable in the car earlier.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Took me by surprise, is all.” He seems to accept my words and tilts his head back to gaze up at the sky, but I’m emboldened by the wine and the black of the night to give him more of an explanation. “You’re really sweet, Vince. Too good for this world. Far too good for me.”

“What?” His head snaps back to me. Only the whites of his eyes are visible in the dark, yet I shrink under the weight of his gaze.

“I know I’m tiring. I’m tired of me, so I can imagine someone else having to deal with me is exhausting. I’m closed-off and sarcastic. And you?—”

He cuts me off by pushing me to my back, my head on a pillow, my wrists in his hands. With the skirt of my dress rucked up, he settles his hips against mine so he’s hovering over me. “Stop.”

“I—”

“You have to stop with this.”

I feel his body heat even as the air around us is hot and humid, and my skin pricks with sweat. He leans down, resting his forehead to mine, his chest hard against me, his weight solid and comforting on top of me. I bend my knees, mechanically bringing him closer, slotting him into the pocket of my open legs, and I don’t recall what I was even saying. What I have to stop.

Because I want him to keep going.

“I could never tire of you,” he says, our breaths mingling as his lips graze mine.

There is no ounce of hesitation, no conscious thought, merely wild flowers smashing through the cement for light and air. I’m alive and want to be alive with him.

Needto be alive with him.

“Vince…”

He fits his mouth against mine, tasting faintly of beer and the strawberry dessert his aunt made. I sink one of my hands into his hair while letting the other skate down his back, finding his skin underneath his T-shirt. When I scratch my nails across the muscles on either side of his spine, he hisses his pleasure and drags his lips across my jaw, the stubble of his five-o’clock shadow scraping me in return.

I can’t get enough of it.

Of his roaming hands and fingers on my waist, my breasts, my throat. Or the way he sucks on my pulse point and I arch my back, inviting him to take more. He does, leaning on his side to slide his fingertips along the inside of my thigh, taking the soft cotton I’m wearing with it, revealing my thin underwear.

And that’s when the first firework is loosed, exploding over us, and I flinch involuntarily.

“You’re okay,” he reminds me, and I nod even though it wasn’t a question. Because whenever I’m with him, I’m always okay.

Then he lowers his mouth to my ear so I can hear him breathing over the booms and pops above us, the bright blues and whites and greens lighting up the sky enough that I can see how the veins in his throat and arms stand out starkly in shadow. He’s so strong and sure, and I want to be like him, give in to him. Ask him to make me whole again.

But I don’t. Instead, I release a moan that only he can hear, our desires protected from the outside world by the celebrations above and below us.

But, Vince and I, we’re celebrating life in a whole other way.

“I need to feel you,” he says, nipping at the skin of my throat, and I place my hand over his, guiding it to slip underneath my damp panties. I inhale sharply at the first tender slide of his fingers against my sensitive flesh, and when I start to lift my hands to dig them into his shoulders, he shakes his head, catching one and then the other, raising them above my head. He holds my wrists in one hand then tugs slightly, pulling me taut like a bowstring. My nipples are tight, my breasts heavy, and he dips his head down, kissing the curve of them and then up my throat. “Let me take care of you.”

He’s been taking care of me for months now, and there is no better feeling in the world than giving in to him. So I do.

“Please,” I whimper, and his hold on my wrists tightens as he sinks his other hand back below my underwear.

I’m wet, I can feel it, and he groans when he does too. “You don’t know,” he starts, his lips whispering against my collarbone as two thick fingers pet and prod me open. “You don’t know how sweet you are.”

“I’m not.” I sigh when he strokes those fingers inside me. “I’m not sweet.”

“You are.” He shifts, raising his head over me, his eyes black pools, even with the bursting colors above us. “You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known, delicate and soft. I’ve always known, always saw it in you, no matter how you try to hide it.”

My eyes and nose burn, and I lift my head, closing the distance between us to kiss him, forcing him to stop talking with my teeth and tongue, but he smiles against my mouth and slowly drags his fingers in and out of my sex, torturing me until I’m writhing beneath him.

Only then does he tend to where I’m most sensitive as he nips my earlobe. I involuntarily clamp my knees tighter at the onslaught of sensation, and he sinks down farther, finally releasing my wrists. Although with the quick pinch of them against the rough shingles, I know he wants me to keep them there, so I do.

He rewards me by cupping my breast through my dress, sweeping his thumb back and forth over my peaked nipple. He licks and sucks across my throat, edging my legs back open with his elbow before pressing and circling harder against my clit. “You’re sweet here too. Tight and hot, but you’ve got to let me in.” He smooths his hand up my throat, over my jaw and cheek, curling his fingers into my hair, holding me. And thank Zeus because I think I might break into pieces.

He draws the tip of his nose down mine then kisses me again, prying soft sounds from the back of my throat. “Let me in, and I’ll take care of you.”

My body responds before my mind can, and I relax my legs, sink into his sure and steady hold, and he presses the advantage, dipping his fingers inside me, twisting until he finds the spot that has me moaning and my fingernails digging into my palms.

“I would wait for you forever, but I’m glad you’re not making me,” he says, and I can’t register what he’s telling me. Not when his stubble is raking over my skin and his lips are turning me to mush. “You feel it? You feel how much you want me?”

I can. I can feel my inner muscles working, convulsing around his fingers. I can feel my heart racing, my chest heaving with each breath. I feel everything. I feel it all.

And it’s too much.

“It can be like this all the time,” he murmurs against the shell of my ear. “Let me in, and I’ll make sure it’s like this all the time.”

Then he bites the slope of my neck and shoulder, and he presses hard inside me at the same time he circles his thumb over my clit, and fireworks go off inside me too.

Above me, they pop and sizzle, like my heart when Vince smiles down at me as if everything is right in the world.

But it’s not.

He tenderly removes his hand from inside me, slipping out of my ruined panties, and gently brushes my hair back from my sweat-slicked temple. Then he sticks his wet fingers in his mouth, ruining me.

And I blink, trying not to cry.

He rolls on top of me. “Don’t, sweetheart. Please don’t overthink this.”

I shake my head and push against his chest, forcing him to give me room.

To breathe.

To think.

Because, yes, I am overthinking.

I sit up, mindlessly wiggling my fingers and arms, anxiety and alarm creeping into my bloodstream as his words finally hit me.

You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known, delicate and soft. I’ve always known, always saw it in you, no matter how you try to hide it.

Let me in, and I’ll make sure it’s like this all the time.

I’ll take care of you.

I would wait for you forever.

And it’s not fair. It’s not fair of me to make him wait and take care of me.

He shouldn’t have to.

He shouldn’t want to.

I’m broken beyond repair.

I fix the straps of my dress and settle the skirt over my thighs, telling him the first honest words that come to me. “I would drag you down.”

He leans into my space, laughing like I’m kidding. I’m not.

“You think you could actually drag me down,” he says, wrapping me up. “With these arms?”

Even now, I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to stay in his perfect embrace, but I can’t, and I wiggle out of his arms, meeting his amused gaze until he sees the truth in mine.

He drops his chin toward his chest for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling on a breath I can’t hear over the fireworks. He nods a few times to himself before lifting his eyes to mine. The corner of his mouth hooks up sadly. “You won’t accept it, will you?”

You won’t accept meis what he’s really asking. And I can’t.

Because I’d ruin it.

Ruin him.

Ruin us.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, and when he doesn’t respond, save for a tic in his jaw, I ask, “Can’t we just be friends?”

I make sure to look him steadily in the eyes that I can see now as the fireworks light up the sky. Bright white, green, and pink explode, reflecting on Vince’s face.

Boom.

Boom.

Sizzle.

Finally, Vince agrees with, “Yeah, okay. Friends.”

But it feels like an ending. Like the fireworks. The sky quiets and darkens, and so do we.