Page 94 of Finding Him
He doesn’t answer right away, his body still rigid beside me, his grip around me tightening just a bit. I feel like I’m walking through a minefield, and now I’m frozen still, holding my breath, waiting to see if I’ve just stepped on a landmine and will be blown to bits.
Finally, after a few painfully silent seconds, he speaks. “No.”
“No?” I press, turning my head to look at him. He’s looking up at the stars now too, and I can tell his jaw is clenched.
I don’t think yelling at him again, like on Thursday, would be of any benefit. But a part of me wants to. A part of me is desperate to screamyou have a problemat him again.
He’s not lying to you, he’s lying to himself.
“No,” he repeats, and his voice is firm but it lacks its usual confidence.
“Niall...”
“Drop it,” he snaps, his grip on my waist loosening as he sits up, pulling away from me. His voice is cold, colder than the wind biting at my skin. “Just drop it, Molly.”
I sit up beside him, pulling his hoodie tighter around my body, feeling a mixture of guilt and anger churning in my chest. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you but—”
“Then why’d ya bring it up?” he asks.
“Because like I said before, I care about you,” I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinches away from my touch, but I persist, grabbing his hand and holding it tight. “I care about you so much, Niall. And I just... I want you to be happy and healthy.”
He sighs, running his free hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “Iamhappy and healthy.”
“Are you?” I squeeze his hand. “Because I don’t think you are. I think you’re hurting... and I think you’re using alcohol to numb that pain.”
He doesn’t answer, his jaw working as he stares at our intertwined fingers.
“Please,” I whisper, leaning closer to him. “Please talk to me. Don’t shut me out.”
Finally, after a few more moments of silence, his shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine. Okay? I drink too much because I feel like I need it. Ya happy now? Ya got me to admit I’ve got a problem.”
“No,” I frown, shaking my head. “I’m not happy. I’m worried. And I want to help you.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “And how exactly are ya gonna do that, huh?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, biting my lip again. A nervous habit. “But I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out together.”
He looks at me, his blue eyes searching mine for something. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find it, because hisexpression softens and he pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my hair.
“You can’t fix me, Molly,” he murmurs quietly into my hair.
“I don’t want to fix you,” I whisper back, wrapping my arms tightly around him. “I just want to help you.”
He holds me tight, his grip almost painful but I don’t complain. I just hold him back, letting him know I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere.
“Hands,” I think I hear him whisper.
“What?”
He pulls away, cupping my face in his hands and pressing his forehead against mine. His breath is warm when he whispers, “nothing. Just... thank you.”
“For what?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“For caring,” he answers simply, before closing the small distance between us and pressing his lips to mine.
The kiss is soft and gentle, a stark contrast compared to the heated one we shared in the art room on Thursday, where we were basically breathing in each other’s oxygen. But this one is just as meaningful, maybe more so.
Every kiss we’ve shared feels different.
