“Bay.” It sounded like a croak, a rusty gate of a word I hadn’t let myself say out loud in over a year. Somehow it seemed to be one of the few words I could utter in her presence. 

“Let’s not.” Her words were sharp and final, but I couldn’t be this close to her and not talk to her. 

“We need to.” Training camp was a grueling non-stop thirty days I’d prepared myself for. But it also meant she could dodge me as much as she wanted. Knowing she was closer than she’d been in years and not getting to say what I needed to say to her—that would kill me. 

“We don’t need to do a thing. This story”—she gestured between the two of us—“ended back in Greenwood.” 

She tried to push past me, but I couldn’t let her walk away, not yet. I didn’t have a single thing I could say to get her to stay. Not in the way I wanted. Not in a way she deserved.

Staring straight ahead, she pressed her shoulder against the metal doorframe. 

I needed to back off. I needed to get out of the way. But this might be the last chance I ever got to be near her. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Her head snapped to the side. Our bodies were so close. We were sharing the same air, passing it between us like all those nights I’d drawn her, or watched movies with her, or just felt like the luckiest guy in the world because she was beside me. 

“Too fucking bad. Take that apology and shove it so far up your ass you can taste the hair on your knuckles.” Her eyes blazed. Every muscle was tight, radiating the anger she’d let loose with every syllable. 

“Well that was graphic as hell.” The corners of my mouth twitched, nerves getting the better of me. She had a harder edge to her now. Or maybe it was what being around me did to her. 

“I wanted to paint the picture for you.” Her voice was low and biting.

I dropped my arm and stepped out of the doorway, still not giving her a clear path out. I was wrong on so many levels, but once again, I couldn’t stop myself. “Can we talk?” 

“What about how our interaction has gone so far has made you think I have a word to say to you?” 

“I-I thought you might want to talk.” My palms felt like I should have sweat droplets dripping from my fingertips. There were so many things I’d told myself I’d say the next time I saw her. I’d thought I’d have more time. A solid plan in place. Two brain cells to rub together. “Clear the air.” 

Her cheeks were flushed like they’d get when she’d catch me watching her in class, or after I tickled her and she gasped, panting, after finally telling me to stop. Or the way they’d gotten when we’d stood on the football field in our caps and gowns and she told me to walk away.

“About you humiliating me in front of the entire school? About sleeping with me and then breaking my heart?” Her throat worked up and down. “Or about breaking my dad’s guitar?” Her voice broke and I wanted to chop off my own hand for what I’d done. 

Her dad’s guitar. Standing in the sunny, summer afternoon, surrounded by our classmates, she’d told me what I’d done to something that had been such a precious memory of her father, and I’d known that was it. She’d never forgive me, but I needed to know she was okay. “Any of it. All of it.” 

“There’s nothing you can say to fix any of those things. Not a damn thing.”

“Bay.” It sounded like a croak, a rusty gate of a word I hadn’t let myself say out loud in over a year. Somehow it seemed to be one of the few words I could utter in her presence. 

“Let’s not.” Her words were sharp and final, but I couldn’t be this close to her and not talk to her. 

“We need to.” Training camp was a grueling non-stop thirty days I’d prepared myself for. But it also meant she could dodge me as much as she wanted. Knowing she was closer than she’d been in years and not getting to say what I needed to say to her—that would kill me. 

“We don’t need to do a thing. This story”—she gestured between the two of us—“ended back in Greenwood.” 

She tried to push past me, but I couldn’t let her walk away, not yet. I didn’t have a single thing I could say to get her to stay. Not in the way I wanted. Not in a way she deserved.

Staring straight ahead, she pressed her shoulder against the metal doorframe. 

I needed to back off. I needed to get out of the way. But this might be the last chance I ever got to be near her. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Her head snapped to the side. Our bodies were so close. We were sharing the same air, passing it between us like all those nights I’d drawn her, or watched movies with her, or just felt like the luckiest guy in the world because she was beside me. 

“Too fucking bad. Take that apology and shove it so far up your ass you can taste the hair on your knuckles.” Her eyes blazed. Every muscle was tight, radiating the anger she’d let loose with every syllable. 

“Well that was graphic as hell.” The corners of my mouth twitched, nerves getting the better of me. She had a harder edge to her now. Or maybe it was what being around me did to her. 

“I wanted to paint the picture for you.” Her voice was low and biting.

I dropped my arm and stepped out of the doorway, still not giving her a clear path out. I was wrong on so many levels, but once again, I couldn’t stop myself. “Can we talk?” 

“What about how our interaction has gone so far has made you think I have a word to say to you?” 

“I-I thought you might want to talk.” My palms felt like I should have sweat droplets dripping from my fingertips. There were so many things I’d told myself I’d say the next time I saw her. I’d thought I’d have more time. A solid plan in place. Two brain cells to rub together. “Clear the air.” 

Her cheeks were flushed like they’d get when she’d catch me watching her in class, or after I tickled her and she gasped, panting, after finally telling me to stop. Or the way they’d gotten when we’d stood on the football field in our caps and gowns and she told me to walk away.

“About you humiliating me in front of the entire school? About sleeping with me and then breaking my heart?” Her throat worked up and down. “Or about breaking my dad’s guitar?” Her voice broke and I wanted to chop off my own hand for what I’d done. 

Her dad’s guitar. Standing in the sunny, summer afternoon, surrounded by our classmates, she’d told me what I’d done to something that had been such a precious memory of her father, and I’d known that was it. She’d never forgive me, but I needed to know she was okay. “Any of it. All of it.” 

“There’s nothing you can say to fix any of those things. Not a damn thing.”

COMING SOON IN FALLING TRILOGY

PREORDER BOOK 3 – THE HATE OF LOVING YOU – May 6, 2021

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ADD TO YOUR TBR!
THE ART OF FALLING FOR YOU (Book 1) http://bit.ly/GRTHOLY
THE SIN OF KISSING YOU (Book 2) http://bit.ly/GRTSOKY
THE HATE OF LOVING YOU (Book 3) http://bit.ly/GRTHOLY