Page 2 of From Square One

The world crystallizes again, throwing colors into sharp relief. Aaron is leaning over me, his eyelashes long and dark, his arctic irises freezing me to the bed, his skin a smooth, snowy canvas. He’s always looked as cold as his insufferable personality.

But his thumb is sliding along my jaw, and it’s warm.

“Hey, sunshine,” he says. He’s probably here to poke and prod me while I can’t complain. He mentioned once that “riling Riley” is his favorite hobby, despite how rarely we interact. Though he’s never goaded me to the point of exploding. I don’t have enough energy to detonate.

“Go away,” I mumble.

He curses, and I realize Logan is wrenching his shoulder, cheeks flushed with anger. “Leave,” Logan growls. “Or I’m sending you out the window.”

Aaron’s glare toward him is intense enough that ice crackles through my veins. He smacks Logan’s palm away, and I make a choked noise of protest. “Touch me again and I’ll break your fucking wrist,” he whispers. “I have more of a right to see him than you do.”

“He’s my brother!”

“You’re the reason he’s here.”

The red saturation melts away from Logan’s face, paling his skin.

My frustration is insurmountable, made worse by my body’s inability to follow my commands. “What happened?” I croak. “Why can’t I move?”

Logan and Aaron whirl toward me, eyes widening. “Did he just speak?” Logan demands. “Wait, take the breathing mask off.”

The what? How hard did I fall?

Aaron’s horrifically long fingers lower a mask around my face that I hadn’t noticed. “Riley,” he says in a strange, unfamiliar voice. Whenever Aaron speaks to me, it’s in low, drawling tones, typically around the edges of a blood-boiling smirk. He’s one year older, but he addresses me like a toddler because he knows it makes me prickly. This is softer. Kinder. “Try speaking again.”

“Don’t touch Logan,” I snap. “I don’t care how tall you are…I’ll knee you right where you least want it…Stay away…”

My words sputter because Aaron’s eyes are glassing with tears. “I can hear your voice,” he says, his own wavering. “You’re babbling and raspy, but I can hear you. Can you try talking again, Riley? The doctor is on her way over. Keep your eyes open, okay?”

All I can do is stare up at his pretty face in bemusement. Aaron despises me—he has for years, since I’m the only one who ever actively roadblocked him from being a bad influence on my brother. The way he’s looking at me…Why does he seem so relieved?

I don’t understand why he’s here to visit me. He never has before. Though it’s been a while since I landed myself here once I found the underlying reason for my fainting spells.

“Hey,” he says, far too gently, his eyes brimming with an overwhelming emotion I can’t comprehend. “You’re okay, sunshine. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m…Fuck, Riley…I’m so glad you’re…”

He takes a shuddering gasp and bends down.

He kisses me.

The earth’s rotation ceases. Everything is unbearably still. The smell of peppermint is the first thing I register aside from the throb of distant pain. Soft. His lips are soft, thin, insistent. Peppermint.

I blink, and suddenly, I’m lying on my bedroom carpet, and Aaron’s tongue is nudging against my lower lip, and his fingers are notching my knee around his waist.

Peppermint.

I blink again. I’m back in the hospital. I focus all my willpower and sentience into my palm.

Then drive it up and slap Aaron Beckham across the face.

He staggers, expression etched with astonishment, like he didn’t expect a counterattack. “I’m sorry!” I choke out, heat blistering through my cheeks. “But…but you really shouldn’t have…I can’t believe you would do something like that…”

Logan glances between us, equally bewildered.

“Riley.” Aaron nestles himself onto my bed with a nervous smile that exposes the dimple in his left cheek. I’ve always wanted to poke it. If I ever do, it’ll probably be with a knife, because I’ve finally snapped. Which—like, okay—I’m not usually violent, beyond the fact that I can’t deal any real damage. I don’t like confrontation, and I don’t often get angry. But being around Aaron Beckham awakens primal, abhorrent instincts within me.

There’s pressure on my wrist—Aaron’s hand must be folded over mine, because my tingly fingers feel warmer. “It’s just me,” he says. “Don’t you recognize your boyfriend?”

Boyfriend.