Zane gripped the steering wheel tighter. “If we go in, we might make things worse.”
Assuming that his dad had come to see his mom to shout at her for her role—as the chief imagined it, anyway—in our escape, then yeah. I had to agree. We’d be proving his theory correct, that we’d run to her for help. And if he was here because he hoped to track us down and turn me in to Dr. Jacobs, then going in would make our status plummet from “iffy” to “certain doom.”
“It’s probably best to wait and see what happens,” I said. Actually, there was no “probably” about it. When all else fails, gather more intel and wait for an opportunity—no question. But those were his parents in there, and I wasn’t sure he’d feel I was qualified to dictate in this instance. If it had been my father in potential danger…well, that was complicated, assuming I’d ever even see him again.
“If there’s obvious…distress, we’ll intercede,” I added, taking care with my word choice. Zane had been very careful in what he had not said. I would do the same.
Without waiting for direction from me, Zane accelerated through the intersection and made the necessary turns to take us back to our house.
I caught myself and shook my head. Not our house. The house. The abandoned home for sale where we’d spent the night last night. Somehow in the last twenty-four hours, I’d begun attaching possessive pronouns to it.
A sudden memory of Zane and me standing shoulder to shoulder (well, with my height aided by the step stool of the toilet), peering out the window. That coziness, familiarity, that comfort of having him near when everything else was uncertain and frighteningly unstable.
I wanted that. Wanted him. Needed him.
A dull ache started in my chest. A crappy abandoned house, dirty carpeting, no furniture, in a shady neighborhood. It was a twisted and shadowy version of my Dream-Life vision of suburban perfection. But it was real, actually located in this world. If that was as close as I’d get to my dream, I’d take it.
But what would I have to give up? If Zane forced me to choose between him and what I thought was right…I shook my head.
“Don’t fall in love” had been one of my father’s Rules. And I’d broken it before I fully understood why he’d included it. But it was too late; I couldn’t—wouldn’t—take back the past. The only question now was how it would affect the future, if I let it.
Zane led the way up the sidewalk to the door with more confidence this time, stepping aside only for me to unlock and open the door. Apparently, breaking and entering was growing on him.
Once inside, I closed the door after us. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed since our last visit.
I opened my mouth to say as much to Zane, but he was already bounding up the stairs.
Trying to avoid me? Worried about his mother? Both?
I sighed and followed him. I found him in the bathroom again, staring at his mother’s house as if by intense scrutiny he could divine anything that was going on inside.
“Do you hear anything?” he asked without looking at me.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on the gossamer threads of words and feelings emanating from that location. But I couldn’t hear anything other than a distant and furious buzz with the occasional out of context phrase.
…your fault.
If you hadn’t been so concerned with…
…can’t blame me for your inadequacies…
“They’re arguing,” I said. “But other than that…there’s too much emotion,” I said. I could feel waves of fear—lots of it—mixed with anger and suspicion, like water lapping at a distant shore. If we went in closer, I might have a better shot at isolating thoughts or even identifying who was thinking what, but from here, no.
Zane exhaled loudly, leaning against the window frame, tapping his fingers anxiously against the top of it.
I slipped my arm around his back tentatively, attempting in my own less-than-smooth way to offer comfort.
He tensed, surprised enough to glance down at me, but he didn’t pull away, which felt like a victory.
I fumbled, alternating between awkwardly patting and just maintaining the contact. It felt unnatural, as if I were trying out some new skill. And to be fair, it wasn’t like I’d had a lot of practice. For most of my life, I’d done my very best to avoid being touched, which included touching other people. Zane was pretty much the only exception to that rule, the only person from whom I more than just tolerated physical affection. And that had taken time, patience (his), and a situation that hadn’t given me much choice but to challenge the barriers I’d erected for myself. Pretending to be in a relationship, though, hadn’t given me much practical experience in actually being in one.
Keeping an eye on what little I could see outside—the windowsill was just below eye level for me—I moved my hand aimlessly over Zane’s back, trying for a soothing motion. Rubbing at the knots below his shoulder blades, tracing the hollow at the small of his back and the rise of muscle on either side of his spine through the slightly damp and scratchy fabric of his shirt. I hadn’t realized the material was this unpleasant; no wonder he’d been so miserable in this outfit.
Eventually, I realized he wasn’t watching out the window anymore, but staring down at me.
I glanced up and caught my breath. His gray-blue gaze was dark with emotion.
“You know I’m just worried about you, right? I would never try to keep you from them for any other reason.” The urgency and pleading in his voice was hypnotizing, pulling at me.
Biting my lip, I nodded.
He lifted my hair away from my cheek—any taming I’d done earlier was long gone—tucked it behind my ear, and brushed his thumb over my lower lip until I released it.
I’d heard the phrase “time stood still” but never understood it until that second, when every thud of my heart seemed to expand, taking hours to complete the contraction and move on. All my attention was focused on the feeling of the connection between us, like a live wire completing a circuit—his thumb grazing the lower edge of mouth, my hand clutching at his back. Round and round we went, a circle of sensation that called to me to forget everything except for this feeling.
I inched closer to him, drawn by the almost magnetic urge to fit myself against him. Then, following a bold impulse I barely recognized as my own, I tugged at his shirt with shaking fingers until it came free, giving me access to his warm skin.
My bravery only went so far, though, and my palm just grazed his bare side before I pulled back.
His breath caught in his throat audibly, a funny little sound between a sigh and a groan. Then he leaned down—so fast I barely had time to register the movement—and his mouth closed over mine.
His tongue tangled with mine, and I wrapped my fists in his shirt, trying to pull myself closer still and out of the awkward angle caused by our height difference.
Then he bent down and lifted me up, one arm around my back and the other behind my knees.
I gasped at the feeling as much as the sudden movement. The back of my knee was not a particularly secretive or private place as far as I knew; I mean, it had been exposed all day long while I was in this skirt. And yet his fingers tight against that vulnerable skin sent fire zipping through my veins.
Now, this…this is why humans did such stupid things for love. To feel this heady sense of belonging and connection, this temporary abatement of perpetual loneliness.
The new level of intensity probably should have frightened me, but instead it had a strange grounding effect, as if this were what was keeping me here instead of floating away. As if, despite how fuzzy and out-of-focus these feelings made me, they also certified my reality.