Page 29 of I'm Gonna Get You Back
I’m not ready forthatconversation yet. With anyone.
He lingers on my bare legs a fraction longer than anywhere else, and heat flashes across my cheekbones.
I stare back. I can’t even pretend like I’m not hungry to take him in and absorb every detail. Everything new (the shadows under his eyes), everything familiar (the way he taps the side of his leg when he’s nervous). His longer hair falls in a slightly styled wave over his forehead. My fingers twitch to weave through it and tousle it a bit. I always preferred it a little messy.
The deck creaks under my boots as I step toward him. But his shoulders go rigid the closer I get, and I force myself to stop. I fiddle with the camera strap and try like hell to play it cool. I don’t want him to know how untethered I feel.
“The guest of honor has arrived,” I say, my smile slowly rising.
An unreadable expression flickers across his features. Though the scent of woodsmoke floats around us from a neighboring fireplace reminding us it’s almost fall, his skin still carries the golden tan of summer.
When he doesn’t say anything, I try again. “I thought you weren’t supposed to get here until tomorrow.”
He clears his throat and doesn’t meet my eyes when he explains. “My class was canceled today. Figured I might as well beat the traffic.”
“Smart,” I say, nodding too hard. “It’s bad on long weekends.”
Traffic. Months of silence and we’re talking about traffic.
“You look—” I want to say “good.” And while he’s still every bit as devastating, he also looks wrung out. “Collegiate,” I finish instead.
“That’s code for ‘tired,’ isn’t it?”
Damn. I forgot how good he is at sifting through my words for the real meaning. When I smile, the corner of his mouth lifts. It unfurls the tension in my chest a bit.
Is he still upset about everything? Or worse, over it? Maybe that’swhy he hearted the picture. Instead of it being a chance, it’s proof he’s moved on. Why is that only occurring to menow?
His eyes drop to my hands, and I release my twisted fingers.
“So, how are you?” I ask, lightly smacking his arm with the back of my hand. Casual, breezy. As if he’s someone I barely know instead of someone who’s trailed kisses down my spine. As if I don’t torture myself with wondering if he’s done that with anyone else. “Mitchell tells me nothing.”
His jaw—sharper than it used to be—jumps. “Yeah, you and Mitchell. That’s… new.”
There’s something I don’t understand simmering under his words. “We’re the last two standing from the group.” I shrug. “It’s chill, you know?”
Every line on his face sharpens with annoyance. He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, then closes it again as if thinking better of it. Shaking his head, he says, “Clara, I… don’t think we can do this.”
I always loved it when he said my name. Not like our friends or anyone else at school, but the way he’s heardmesay it.Clah-ra instead of Clare-uh. Except now there’s a bite to it that was never there before.
My chest is rising rapidly, embarrassment crawling up my neck. “Do what?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks past me instead of responding.
Frustration leaches into my tone. “We can’t exchange pleasantries? That’s kind of the bare minimum of human interaction. I ask how you are, and you say, ‘fine.’ You ask how I am, and I say, ‘fine—’”
“Clara.”
“Then maybe we mention the weather, or the traffic. But you didthatalready—”
“Clara.”
“Then we go our separate ways.” I ignore how unhinged I sound and cross my arms tight.
His dark brown eyes finally lock on mine, intense and stormy and still so hurt. But I keep my expression passive. Unbothered. My vibrating hands tucked firmly against me.
“So, are you? Fine?”
He sighs. “Not really. You?”
