Chapter 8

8

Rory's not in our room. I stand in the center, between the bed and the couch, staring out the sliding door. I walked the boardwalk for twenty minutes before coming back to see if he was here.

Now, I check my phone for the millionth time.

Where is he?

I walk over to the sliding door, shoving it open and stepping outside, pinching the bridge of my nose as I inhale fresh air like it's a lifeline. The smell of plumeria is thick, sweet, and strong. It doesn't calm me.

Where would he go? What would he do?

Back at IFU, probably the library, tucking himself into a carousel. Is there a place like that here?

I can't keep standing here, doing nothing. Not when Rory's out there.

I pull up our group chat with Carter and Theo, just to make sure he hasn't responded in there, and then I text him separately again.

Can you just confirm that you're okay? You don't have to say anything else. I'm just worried about you.

I hit send and stare down at the phone for a long minute, my throat tightening, my fear growing with each passing millisecond.

Anything. Please.

I've texted him nearly thirty times. Overkill? Logic probably says so, but it doesn't feel like it.

"Just text me once," I mumble. "Just to let me know that?—"

"I'm okay." His voice comes from the door, and my head jerks up, my heart thumping double time.

He's here. Oh, thank fuck, he's here. In his checkered board shorts and sandals, red hair swept back, green neon around his neck, white tee and that pineapple on his arm.

My eyes sweep him again and again. My heart's in my throat, my hands shaking. I pocket my phone.

"I was so worried," I croak out, and it feels like the biggest understatement of my life. Fuck, I'm scared . Because of hurting him. Because of what I feel. Because of all these thoughts that are waking up and falling into place. Or maybe they've been there all along—waiting. "I'm so sorry, Rory. I didn't mean to say something that hurt you. But it did hurt you, and that's what I care about. I won't say it again."

He's standing so stiffly. Jesus, what is he thinking ?

He licks his lips. "You just told the truth."

"But not the truth like you think it is." I take a step closer to him. I just want to be close to him. "I like your size and your height. I like your?—"

"You don't need to pretend, D." His hands are shoved into his pockets, his forearms so tight that they're quivering. The echo of neon highlights a ripple in his jaw.

He's angry. Or hurt. Or both.

I did this.

"I'm not pretending." My throat closes even more. I want him to know how I see him. If I could just dump that image out at his feet, would he understand? "In no fucking way am I pretending. I?—"

"Just stop ." His voice cracks. "We don't have to do this."

"Do what exactly?" I ask softly.

" This ." He closes his eyes, breathing in a way that fully expands his chest, and it almost seems like the leaves and trees are moving with him, this steady in and out of the breeze, stars winking far above, the moon hidden somewhere behind the broad leaves.

His eyes open, settling on me. "You always try to make me feel better, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. But we don't have to pretend that you're into me. You said it back there. Little ."

"I'm not pretending. And I'm not just trying to make you feel better." I want him to understand. "I like you, Rory."

Holy fuck, I said that.

But it's not relief that I feel. It's heartbreak. Because I should've said it so long ago.

I should have asked to kiss him that night three weeks ago. I should have gone after him when he stumbled away. I should have told him after the shower that I was thinking of him .

Well… maybe I should keep that one to myself for now.

But, regardless, I should have done so many things differently.

I always step back. I always give him space. But maybe I give too much. Maybe that's part of what's made three and a half years go by.

"I more than like you," I say. My voice roughens. I want to step closer to him, but I force myself to stay where I am. I don't want him to run again. "I think about you all the time. I fantasize about you. I dream about you. I wake up smothering you because I want to be close to you. Anything that I can do, I pretty much do it."

"I…" He lets out a shaky breath. "Why are you saying this?"

He's shaking his head, like I don't understand, or I don't see.

But I do. I see him . In so much clarity. The freckles along his nose, and the hard angle of his shoulders, and the size of the huge heart that beats in his chest—the one that he always seems to disregard for his brain, but I know it's there. I can see it right now. And it's hurting.

"I'm saying it because it's true."

He shakes his head. "D, there's no way that?—"

"Why do you keep dismissing what I'm saying?" A shot of annoyance pushes through me, that he's not listening to me, but I shove it aside and take a small step forward. I want to understand what he's thinking. "Why are you so convinced I couldn't like you?"

His lips tighten. "Experience? Common sense? I mean, hell, D. You're this six-foot-tall, gorgeous man who?—"

"Five eleven and three-quarters."

He flinches. "What?"

"If we're getting technical about it, I'm five eleven and three-quarters. Not six feet."

He groans. "Who cares?"

"Apparently you do. So, I'm taller than you. So what?"

"It's not just that. It's everything ." He shivers. "You're hot. Like stop-and-stare kind of hot. Up on that stage? The way people were cheering for you? And I can't—" He keeps shaking, pressing his lips and releasing them. "You look like the guy they put on the magazine cover, and I'm the nerd editing the ad copy."

I blink at him. "Nerds are hot."

His jaw tightens. "Don't joke."

"I'm not ." I hazard another step forward, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his sunblock. I can see the hatches on the pineapple tattoo, and it awakens everything, tickling in my stomach.

"Rory…" I start softer, trying to figure out how to put my feelings into words. I want him to understand. I want to phrase it in a way that makes sense to him. "You give me butterflies."

He stares at me.

I stare back, my throat thick, my heart hammering.

Seconds tick by.

A minute?

It's a long time, and my last sentence just hangs there, lingering, so much meaning tucked into those four words.

You give me butterflies .

"Butterflies like I've never felt before," I say.

The palm fronds dip in the breeze behind him, the smell of him mixing with the island. I want to grab him and haul him against me. I want to hug him and tell him over and over that he's exactly as he should be. That of course I'm into him. It seems so unquestionable to me.

But he just keeps standing there, and I don't want to run roughshod over his boundaries. I won't.

"D," he whispers, and I take it as an invitation to keep going. He's not running. He's listening. And I'm finally telling him.

"I'm into everything about you." My voice cracks, hands shaking. "The way you make me think. The way you make the world more interesting." I pause, trying to steady my voice, but it's not steady. It's rocking, and it's real. " And your height and your freckles and those long eyelashes of yours. Your glasses and your wrists, fuck your wrists …" I groan. "I love your wrists. And I love your brain. How smart you are. How kind you are. How you don't pretend to be anyone but yourself. I'm nearly obsessed with you, and it feels so terrifying and good to finally tell you. To finally let it out. If it's too much, then I understand. You don't need to do anything. No boundary crossing. Just getting to be around you is enough."

He's still not moving.

My mouth is dry, and I'm aware of exactly how I'm standing, the board shorts that are snug around my waist, the faint weight of the yellow bracelet, the wisp of hair that's fallen into my sight. The flip-flops I forgot to take off at the door, how the plastic part is pinching the inside of my big toe.

"Do you mean that?" he whispers.

"Every word."

"It's…" He swallows. "No one's been into me. Not really. Not ever."

"I don't believe that."

"It's true. The one guy who…" His lips press, his jaw tightening again. And things crystallize for me.

The one guy who… . I don't know what happened, but I hate whatever the fuck it is. "If you don't believe me, then I'll just have to keep telling you," I say. "Until you do."

"D." His chin quivers. "I want to. Somewhere in me, I know I logically should . But it's so hard with all the things that I tell myself in my head."

My heart aches. I want to pull him against me, hug him to my chest, tell him again and again that he's so much more than whatever he's telling himself. That there's nothing wrong with him. That if someone has said something to him, if someone has made him believe something else, then there's something wrong with them, not him. He'd tell me that about my LD, in a heartbeat.

But it's so much harder to see our own worth. I get that. I know it's complex.

"We're best friends, Rory." I take a slow step forward. "You believe that, don't you?"

His eyes soften. "Yes."

His arms unwrap from his chest. I take another step and stop two inches away from him. I pause, unsure what to do.

I let out a relieved breath when he tips forward, pressing his head against my chest. I wrap my arms around him and pull him in, closing my eyes. We hug. For a long time, hanging onto each other, breathing together.

I just hold onto my best friend. Whatever else I feel for him, it stays there too, but it quiets. I just love him so much.

Tree frogs sing a chorus beyond the broad leaves of our patio. The fat palm fronds are still, hanging quietly. The sun has fully set now, landscaping lights around the patio flicking on.

"D," Rory whispers, against my chest, and I lean back to see him. But I don't unwrap my arms. I am taller than him. Our height difference is sharp when we're this close.

He sucks in his top lip, looking up at me. And then he pushes up to his toes, his chest against mine.

I swallow, looking across at him.

What's happening?

His eyes move around my face, and then he tips forward.

His lips brush mine. Lightly, softly.

He's kissing me.

Holy shit, he's kissing me .

He's sweet and hesitant. But warm too, his mouth parting, his tongue slipping along my bottom lip.

I reach up to brush my thumb along the side of his jaw, just to be sure that I'm not imagining this, and he moans. A tremble races over me, those butterflies flapping nearly out of control.

He pushes up higher, his fingers digging into my shoulders to keep balanced.

And, oh god, there's so much that coalesces for me in this moment. All my memories of us tangling together. First meeting him in our study group. All those nights studying, when I was really only there to hang out with him. Moving in as roommates, flopping on his bed while he tells me about his day. The night three weeks ago. His smile .

Of everything I've ever seen in my life, his smile is what I want to see most.

And I don't know if I can be three thousand miles away from him.

Right now, I can't even contemplate being six inches away from him.

And I kiss him back. I groan when his tongue slides against mine so… sweetly? Is that the right word? I don't know, but I open for him, our chests moving unevenly, our hands gripping each other. We kiss until there's a pulse through my entire body. Until I'm honestly shaking. When he breaks away, his forehead drops forward onto my chest again.

"That was new," he whispers, and I smile.

"It was definitely that."

He lets out a shaky breath. "Was it…"

"It was perfect."

He's quiet. I can feel a heaviness in him. A struggle. "I can't do more. Not… yet."

I kiss the top of his head. "Then let's go see some flowers."

He leans back to look at me. "Are you serious?"

"Yep."

"Right now?"

"Why not?"

So, we see some flowers. We walk the paths around the villa, leaves tickling us on either side, the sweet smell of the blooms thick in the air. Around the first corner hangs a blanket of angel's trumpets, six-inch blooms that dangle in tight skirts. Night phlox and flowering tobacco are after that. All white blooms.

We meander. We hold hands. We do a lot of kissing. Sometimes tentative at first, but more comfortable with each one. We chat about flowers. It's not until we're almost to the end of the property that I pull him to a stop.

Plumeria. Pale blooms clustered under the moonlight. An entire grove of trees set before us, with a narrow path between.

"It's beautiful," he says, looking up as we walk, clusters of flowers all around us, their smell so thick I can taste it, the petals nearly luminescent in the night.

I smile, pulling him closer. "They mean hope."

Hope .

I have so much of that.