Touch, p.16
Touch, page 16
“But sometimes it’s, like, too much. I know where it’s coming from. His parents pressure him about school and hockey. I tell him he’s amazing all the time, that he’s important to me, but it doesn’t stick. He never thinks he’s good enough. ‘Nice guys’ make him angry, like he won’t be able to compete, so he gets jealous and possessive. Honestly, I was beginning to think he was getting over that. The last couple of days, he’s been incredible, but tonight it started again. He seriously messed up. Oh, God.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m ranting. It’s not like you asked.”
“’S’okay,” Andrew says. His attention is back on the stars, but Love knows he’s listening.
“We don’t really know each other, and I’m saying all this personal stuff.”
“I don’t mind,” he answers.
“You’re just easy to be around. My friends don’t get it. I guess that’s why I read books instead of calling them. I want to know how other people fix the bad stuff. When things happen, how do they make it better? It’s stupid, right? So stupid.”
“It’s not,” Andrew says. “Stories help that way.”
Holly gives him an appraising glance. “Thanks for tolerating me,” she says, reaching out to pat his notebook in gratitude but knocking it off the swing. “Ugh, I’m a spaz.” She beats Andrew to it, plucking the notebook off the floor before he can and pausing at an open page.
“A girl made of iron, of white dresses and lonely smiles,” she recites. “A wingless, remorseless, clueless body. This wild girl is not my girl.”
Love blinks. He’s been writing about her!
Holly shakes her head. “Wow. Who is this? Do I know her?”
Andrew snatches the notebook. “It’s no one.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to . . . ,” she rushes to say, then changes direction. “The writing’s beautiful. She sounds like she’s everyone to you.”
He sneers as if to say, Love would definitely like to think so.
“You’re mad at her,” Holly guesses.
“You think?” he gripes.
“I know the feeling. Griffin was crazy tonight. God, why does being with someone have to be complicated?”
They ponder the ground as if the question has fallen from her mouth and landed there. Love does the same. Why is the complication worth it?
As she looks up again, the sight of Andrew’s profile gives her the answer. It’s complicated, it’s worth it, because . . .
“Because it matters,” Andrew says.
Indeed, Love thinks. Because it matters.
It takes him forever, but eventually he covers Holly’s hand with his own. She grins meekly at him. “You’re sweet.”
He smiles back. It’s a pensive grin, but it’s there. It’s for her.
Holly’s eyes skip over his face for a long time. “I don’t know why I’m bringing this up, but I remember in eighth grade, you used to give away your lunch, every single day, all year, to that poor girl who didn’t have lunch money.”
Love’s chest clenches. That sounds like something Andrew would do.
“What was her name?” Holly prompts.
“Iris,” Andrew answers without missing a beat. “Her name was Iris. How do you know about that? You and I weren’t friends.”
“I noticed you,” she demurs. “That was when I realized you were cute and nice. Anyway, it’s not complicated with you.”
“I haven’t said much,” he points out. “Wait until I start talking.”
They laugh. Love yearns to draw him back to her where he belongs. Instead she stands there like an idiot, letting herself be forgotten.
Andrew sobers. “It’s not complicated with you, either.”
Holly glances at his hand over hers, then up at him. The rhinestones of her eyes hold his attention.
Love tastes the syrupy flavor of Holly’s intent. “You delivered that book to my house even though I didn’t order it. You’re always so quiet that I thought maybe it was your way of reaching out? Because if it was, maybe we should . . . find out what uncomplicated is like. See if it’s better.”
“How?” he whispers.
Her eyes drop to his mouth. “I have an idea.”
Andrew catches her meaning and boldly laces her fingers with his. “So do I.”
There are some moments that don’t require Love’s intervention, moments when human nature works on its own. Laughter, clinking glasses, and pumping music bound from inside, but outside a fissure cracks open in this icy world. The porch swing sighs as these two mortals move closer to each other, while a helpless goddess spies on them.
The pair waits, then chuckles when nothing happens.
“What are we waiting for?” Holly says, angling her lips upward.
Love wants to shut her eyes, to look away, but she can’t.
Holly and Andrew can touch. They do touch.
They kiss.
* 19 *
The worst part is that Love feels their kiss. She feels the determination as their mouths mesh together. The embrace is cautious but curious, visibly turning Andrew to putty. He kisses her back, leaning in and searching for more.
More. He wants to have more.
When his mouth opens to fully take Holly in, he holds her face and kisses her deeply, with no intention of stopping. Ever.
Madness crawls through Love. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, bottling up her feelings so that Andrew won’t hear her. It takes her several attempts, bow lifting and dropping, and lifting and dropping, before she surrenders. It’s the perfect time, but she can’t do it. Not yet.
Let them enjoy each other for real first.
Love thrusts up her chin. She walks away slowly and in a daze until she passes through the swaying, roaming bodies. Rancid, giddy emotions swarm her from different areas of the party like winter flurries.
She rips open the front door—“Dude, did you see that?”—and marches across the lawn. She halts beside a group and pretends to join them, chuckling along, her mirth heightening to a lunatic crescendo because she has no idea what’s so funny. She’s arrived too late to hear the joke.
It’s no use. They can’t see her. She doesn’t belong.
Frustrated, Love smacks a guy’s drink out of his hand, then selects an arrow and shoots a mild dose of lust into his heart. The boy stumbles backward. His eyes glaze over with hunger, looking for someone, anyone at the party, to be with. He won’t attack people, but he’ll certainly make a clumsy dolt of himself, and for the next few minutes, until the ardor wears off, people will think he’s drunk.
Andrew is with Holly. The mortal swine’s not thinking of Love at all, even though just last night he professed his desire to touch her. Maybe Holly will ruin everything by drooling on him or tasting like a rotten vegetable. Miracles do happen.
Love raises her bow, about to target another soul who has gotten in her way.
“Let me know when you’re done rioting,” a voice grunts.
She stops. Anger festers beside her with his arms crossed.
“Don’t you have protests to break up and crimes of passion to thwart?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says simply. “If I could snore through your self-destruction, I would. You must think you’ll be praised for delaying the inevitable and looking incompetent at best, untrustworthy at worst.” He gestures toward the party, appalled. “Corrupt as well. Shooting mortals without tact? Where did our Guides go wrong with you?”
“Leave the Guides out of this,” she warns.
“Don’t you understand? All this romantic prattle is wilting your sense,” Anger raps. “I’ve known you to be naughty but not vicious.”
“This is almost over. Andrew and the girl’s tongues are currently entwined.”
Anger applauds. “Bravo. And so what? That wasn’t your doing. I know because I was there. I was at the back porch—”
“Spying again,” Love says, unsurprised.
“I saw it for myself. They were ready, you had your chance to shoot them, but your bowstring went slack. I defied the laws of reason and helped you by taming those other two mortals, yet you’re still too daft and besotted to get the rest right. There’s a word for it. Let me educate you: It’s called hopeless.”
“Anger—”
“Curb your appetite for the boy and finish this!”
“Let go of me,” Love seethes.
He glowers down to where he’s suddenly clasping her shoulders. Repentant, he yanks his hands away. She rubs the place where he seized her.
Strong. His touch is so strong. Supposing he were able to love, Anger would do it strongly. If he gave her comfort, he would do it strongly as well. He would hold on, if she asked him to.
Another girl is tasting Andrew’s mouth. Meanwhile, Anger could be holding Love. However infuriating the god is, she changes her mind and wishes for the latter scenario. She could use a pair of arms around her, a hint of strong.
Anger must sense her thoughts because his demeanor shifts. It ignites his entire being and kindles a long-deprived need to the surface. His eyes dark, he advances, and Love permits him to, transfixed by his intensity and the commotion it causes low in her belly.
Stars, this is inconceivable. This is Anger. Anger.
He’s about to grasp her once more, on the verge of further complicating her life, when he stops. The trance breaks as he examines her, suddenly horrified. “For Fates’ sake, look at you. You’re pale. You’ve got shadows beneath your eyes. Your body will turn gaunt within days at this rate. This isn’t a game, Love!” he thunders. “This is your life!”
Her stomach churns. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says, crestfallen.
His eyes narrow to slits. “I’m not going to help you be frail. Grow up, goddess.”
Love walks away. To his credit, Anger knows better than to pursue her.
In the main square, she detours and breaks into a clothing shop. Running her hands over a shelf of pajamas, she discovers a bundle of soft azure cotton: sleep pants and a pretty shirt, and underwear called boy shorts. Something to cover herself. Something human.
She changes into them, balls up her white dress, and stuffs it into her quiver. She decides to keep being stupid and heads straight to Andrew’s house, flopping onto the porch and waiting.
And waiting.
“What are you doing here?”
Andrew approaches with an accusatory frown, his grip tightening on his notebook. She stands, fidgets with the pajamas, feeling silly when he fails to notice them.
He’s disheveled and ruddy. His gray coat was closed at the party, but now it’s split open, and he smells like berries. Like her.
Love wants to put her white dress back on. “Where were you?”
“You overhead me and Holly at school. Figure it out for yourself.”
“Must have been a fun party.”
“It was. I had a real good time with her, actually.”
“Indeed. I saw that.”
Andrew balks. “You were there?”
There’s no way to explain why. That wasn’t supposed to come out anyway.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “You had no right to eavesdrop. That conversation was between us.”
Us. They’re an us now.
“You weren’t doing much talking,” Love criticizes.
“Right,” he laughs bitterly. “I forgot how much you people care about our privacy.”
“So I’ve lost you, then.”
In an instant, sadness washes over his face. He has trouble meeting her gaze, his features pulling in two different directions. “Love . . .”
Her name has never sounded so alive. She doesn’t have the will to conceal what this means to her. Or maybe part of her wants him to see her hurt.
She asks, “Was it nice?”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Was it nice to touch a girl? Be touched back?”
“Stop it,” he says. “You can’t do this. You can’t follow me to work, and to school, and to parties, and expect me to be okay with that. You can’t be my friend, then lie to me, then push me away, then hold it against me for spending time with someone else, then come here and act like I belong to you. You’re only interested in me because I can see you. I’m a toy, and you’re lonely!”
“No. It’s because I feel sorry for you!” she shoots back.
Hurt contorts Andrew’s features. “You’re lying,” he insists, but his voice cracks at the end, doubt creeping in.
“You’re not supposed to see me. I didn’t trust you at first and had to investigate, and then yes, we had our friendly moments. And when you learned what my people do to mortals, you became upset, so I felt obligated to mollify your nerves before they ran amok. As for the party, you’re a fragile thing—you proved that in the park when I saved your hide. I figured Griffin’s vengeance might be a roadblock at Holly’s house, and I would have to play the guardian yet again. I’m grateful that I was wrong. You’re quite the burden.”
That last part is true. He is a burden, and she loves him for it.
“I don’t care a fig about your company. It was a minor diversion,” she finishes, detesting herself for this speech and what it does to Andrew’s face.
To his credit, he bounces back quickly, his expression smoothing and concealing the pain she’d just seen there. His eyes sharpen in the dark. “Huh.”
What does huh mean?
It means, “Then maybe I’ll just call Holly tomorrow and hang out with her.”
Love snatches the notebook from him, takes advantage of his shock, and opens it to find another passage about her. Glass eyes and lying mouth. Hands that slip inside my chest and find my heart.
Clipped onto the inside cover is the note he wrote to her.
Who is this girl?
She yanks it from the clasp. Cursing, Andrew lunges, rescuing the notebook and bending it in the process. He’s not quick enough, though. She only needs that one page, the one that refuses to go away. She tears it apart, ripping it to shreds.
The papers fall like snow and puddle around Andrew’s shoes. He sinks to the ground and gathers the soggy pieces gently, quietly. The sight destroys Love.
He looks up at her, so very, very sad. She wants to fall to her knees beside him, to bow her head and beg his pardon. Why is she doing this? Why can’t she just be good to him? Why does she always make these mistakes? Why must he matter so much?
He rises, his words cutting through the air. “You don’t need to touch me in order to hurt me. You break my heart without lifting a finger, and that’s why tonight happened.”
Love holds out her hands, imploring. “Andrew, wait. I—”
“I wish I never met you. Get away from me.”
It appears he doesn’t need to touch her, either, in order to make her suffer. She doesn’t know what to do with this terrible, stinging feeling, and she’s tired all of a sudden, and still desperate to fix this night, and furious because the more she tries, the worse it will get.
In his eyes, everything about her is wrong. And she agrees with him. And she can’t take it.
“Fine,” she snaps.
“Fine,” he snaps.
Neither of them moves. She loathes to be the one to leave, or the one left behind, and she wonders if he feels the same.
“On the count of three,” he suggests.
She nods. On three, she whirls away and hears his hobbling footsteps across the porch. After a few paces, she glances back to see him disappearing inside the house. The light pops on in his window, then clicks off a moment later.
When she gets back to the glass cottage, she studies her reflection in the glass and puckers her lips. In her mind, she imitates Holly. She bats her watery, damsel-length eyelashes at Andrew: Oh, woe is me, boy-I-never-paid-attention-to-before. I’m a fictitious heroine who’s claimed by the wrong rogue, and I’m going to impress you, the social commoner in our high school kingdom, with my introspective side. We should find out what uncomplicated feels like. I have an idea. Oh Andrew, wanna try?
How long did they kiss? How many times?
Love has never cried before. She checks to see if she has tear ducts, but her reflection is too blurry to tell.
* 20 *
After Andrew goes to work the next morning, she checks the first-floor windows of his house. They’re all locked, so she scales the wall. It’s difficult to dig her nails into the shingles and hoist herself up. By the time she reaches the second story, she’s panting.
Love startles when she tries to lift his bedroom window. It’s also locked.
She summons her rage and shoves the pane up into the ceiling, prying the hinges from their sockets. In his room, bits of paper litter his desk, pieces of the note from last night. She remembers him collecting them, clutching them to his chest while wishing she didn’t exist.
Love sits cross-legged on his floor and spreads out the papers. This should take seconds, but she works slowly like a mortal, forgoing speed. As it is, she’s not certain she’d be quicker. She is wilting because of him.
She uses tape and gives life back to his words. The page is finished but scarred everywhere. She rereads the whole thing, baffled how he ever saw her as someone ethereal.
Who is this girl?
Love borrows one of his pens and writes her answer.
She’s not a girl. She made a mistake.
Please forgive her.
She sets the note on his pillow and leaves. In her cottage, she brews tea and stokes the fire. The flames’ height is a good sign that Andrew will be comfortable when he returns and they find a truce. Soon, he’ll read her words and miss her as much as she misses him.
He’ll trek sideways across the snow, and in this secret place, he’ll have more things to say and ask.
Love watches the sky expectantly as it shifts from light to dark. She listens for his footfalls. The fire needs more logs. The rug where he sat across from her looks worn. Dipping her finger in the tea, she discovers its texture has changed, meaning it must not be warm anymore. She empties it out.
