Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(90)

His large, calloused hands surrounded my ribs, untucking the coarse blouse, sliding gently down to my hips. Each place he touched lit with goose bumps and sparks of heat. Remember that, I told myself. How his hands feel right now. Remember every second with him.

Our breathing became ragged and uneven. I grabbed the hem of my blouse and pulled it over my head, expecting to feel self-conscious or too skinny or too plain, but his lips parted, and his eyes grew round, and all of those thoughts disappeared. His fingertip slid just under the waistband of my skirt, circling my belly, and I grasped at the round wooden buttons of his canvas jacket, feeling an unquenchable thirst to be close to him. When my injured wrist made the task cumbersome, he tried to help, but our nervous hands fumbled. We laughed at our lack of grace.

Then, I took a step back and laid his jacket on the floor, spreading it out like a blanket. He watched, silently realizing the weight of my intentions.

He didn’t respond at first, but then nodded once, seemingly at a loss for words.

I sat down on our clothing and he kneeled before me, holding my face in his hands, his bruised thumbs stroking my cheekbones. This is it, I thought, swallowing. And I didn’t even have to remind myself to remember this, because I knew without a doubt, I would.

But his eyes drifted over my bare shoulder, to the floor and his coat, and his brows pulled together.

I covered my chest with one arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Is this okay?” The vulnerability in his gaze startled me. Made me realize he wasn’t asking if I was okay with this dusty room, but with him.

“Yes.”

He said nothing for a moment, then blinked. “You wouldn’t regret…”

“No,” I said. My eyes lowered.

He hesitated. “I’ve screwed up so much already. If you had second thoughts…”

“I wouldn’t,” I said.

He sighed through his teeth. “You say that now.” But he was already leaning back over me, brushing my hair out of my eyes and skimming his fingertips along my jaw.

“I wouldn’t,” I whispered again. “This might be our only chance.”

He stopped. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said hurriedly.

He sat back. “What do you mean?”

I pulled his jacket over my shoulders, feeling very exposed suddenly.

“We don’t have much time left in case … you know. In case something happens tomorrow.”

His jaw fell slack. “You’re not planning on coming back.”

“I am. I mean, I want to.” As if dying were a choice? I stared at my feet. “You haven’t thought about it?”

He jolted up and began to pace, leaving me alone on the floor.

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” he said roughly.

“Then what is it?”

“I’ll find you. If something happens I’ll find you. We’ll be okay. We’re going to South Carolina.” He sounded so desperate to believe that truth that I knew it was thin enough to shatter.

“And if it’s not okay?”

“It will be!” he shouted, making my back straighten. He inhaled sharply, trying to recompose himself.

“You’re not going.”

“Chase—”

“You don’t even think you’re going to live through this! What was I thinking?”

I stood as tall as I could, the tears threatening to spill over. My heart was breaking. I could feel it tearing apart inside of me. He knew, he had to know what this felt like, this guilt-punched hole inside of me.

“You were thinking that if you could change things, you would,” I said.

My mother’s spirit filled the room. Without blame or accusation, but she was there nonetheless.

He stopped suddenly and stared out the window, not at the facility, but down the street at the barracks where he’d lived when we’d been apart.

A minute passed. Two.

“I would do anything to bring her back,” he murmured.

“I love you.”

The words were out before I’d even thought to say them, released by some force beyond my control. Instantly they consumed me, overwhelmed me, like the fact of my love was the only truth I’d ever known. The only truth there was. Chase Jennings, I love you. I love the boy you were and the man that you’ve become and even when I don’t like you at all I still love you because you are you, kind and safe and good, because you understand me and are not afraid.

As the honesty of my words sunk in, he became very still. Statue still. And I waited, more raw and vulnerable than ever.

He took a long shaking breath, and in it, my heart clutched.

“You don’t fight fair.”

“Yeah, well, neither do you,” I said. It was true. Risks weren’t so risky when you had no one to lose.

With a short, dry chuckle he came to me and wrapped his arms around my waist and lowered his forehead to mine, closing his eyes. My fingers traced the pink corkscrew scar across his biceps, and I was reminded of a day he’d nearly died for my protection.

“Now’s where you say it back,” I prompted.

“Say what?” When I hit him he grabbed my hand and pressed it against his chest. “I love you, Em. I’ve loved you since I was eight years old, and I’ll love you my whole life.”