Page 104 of The Time It Takes
“Why?” I ask, finally stepping forward and away from the railing.
He ignores my question as his eyes fill with so much worry that it makes me sick. “Are you in love with him?”
“No,” I blurt in a heavy breath. “No, I am not in love with him.”
“Well, he sure as hell is in love with you.”
I swallow my fear. “I know.”
There’s nothing to describe what I’m feeling. My guilt gnaws at me. It’s like feeling a single strand of hair on your skin, but not being able to find it.
“You know,” he repeats my words.
“Yes, I know, and he’s always known there was someone else for me. It was never supposed to be like that between us. It was just sex, a fling that didn’t know how to end, and we—”
He looks at me like I’m a different person. “Just sex,” he repeats. He steps farther away from me. “And when did this fling end?”
“The same night I booked my flight here.”
“Why?”
I gather my courage and I speak with all the certainty I have left to give. “Because he wanted my heart, and I couldn’t give him something I didn’t have.” I take small steps toward him, not daring to accept the distance growing between us again. “He knew I had nothing left to give him. He knew that someone else already owned all of my best parts.” I’m standing directly in front of him when I say, “He doesn’t know anything about you because I’ve always been stingy about who I let in. There are things that I need to say to you, but I’m begging you to be patient with me. I need you to trust me when I say I will never hurt you again. Believe me when I say I’m going to spend the rest of my life kissing every part of your soul I ever left a bruise on.”
He stares at me, his eyes raw with vulnerability. “I do trust you,” he whispers. “Always.”
He lifts his pinky, and I look at the tattoo there.
“But I’m going to ask you for a favor now,” he croaks as his pinky trails down the side of my cheek. “I want you to tell him about me.” He runs it down the length of my neck and goosebumps spread across my skin. “I want you to tell him what my touch does to you.” I shiver as he drags it across my collarbone. “How it feels when I get this close to you and how loud you scream my name when I’m inside of you. Tell him how you beg for my lips and tongue.” His smile is soft and reassuring while his words are devious. “And lastly…” His pinky reaches the skin below my belly button and a small gasp escapes my lips. “Tell him there is no mercy when it comes to how much I am in love with you Willow Grace Vensling. That you’ve crept so deeply into my bones that when you’re gone, they ache. Make sure he knows you’re a goddamn thunderstorm that only breaks for me.”
He dips down and places a quick featherlight kiss on my lips. Before I can kiss him back, he’s already pulling away and backing toward the door to leave. “You’re my person, Damsel.Mine. Say what you want about the world. Curse it and dismiss it all you want but know that the stars molded you for me and that’s enough to make up for all the other bullshit it put us through. We’re fate, you and I—endgame.”
And then he’s gone.
Every one of his words takes over and owns every inch of my skin, every whisper of my soul.
WHEN I WALK into my room my eyes fall to the large black box that sits on the couch. The corner of my mouth is already lifting as I grab the sides of the box and shimmy the lid off. I take a seat before folding over the tissue paper. My mouth falls open at what I see. My heart jumps into my throat and I can’t help the tears that start to blur my vision.
It’s a painting.
Of me.
He painted me.
I’m sitting in front of a sapphire-colored piano, the city glowing below me as I’m surrounded by a gilded cage. Musical symbols fall through the bars, the wind seeming to carry them down to the world below. I run the tips of my fingers over his signature at the bottom.
Julesian.
I asked him once why he chose that name, and he told me that the only thing he had to remember his mother by was a Polaroid of her holding her pregnant belly standing outside of a trailer home at sixteen. On the back of the photo was a list of names she tried out and when he came across that one, he saw she underlined it three times. It was a completely ridiculous name—he knew that, but he chose to love it anyway because it was a combination of both their names. Julian and Jules.
Thejandsare always extremely exaggerated. It feels like a beautiful gift on its own, just to know the meaning behind it. I wondered if he ever thought about her. I had asked him once if he ever tried to find her, but he had gone mute on me, so I never asked again.
Like I said, we both have things we don’t talk about and that’s why we understand each other so well—without really understanding each other at all. I know Abigail isn’t his real sister, but they grew up in the system together, so I always tell people that they are because that’s what they do. It isn’t anyone else’s business. They’re family in all the ways that matter.
I flip over the canvas and a traitorous tear slides down my cheek at the words I find inked there. I don’t bother to wipe it away.
Don’t forget to fly, there’s a whole world waiting to hear you sing.
It’s too much. I don’t deserve it.
