Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(105)

I flip off my computer screen and the overhead light, yank off      my shirt, and lie down in bed, even though I know sleep won’t come. The problem      with feeling too much is how the hurt consumes every part of me. A slow      agonizing throb aches in my head.

Rain continues to beat against the roof. A storm front that was      supposed to hit tomorrow flew into the area today and stalled out over town.      Part of me doesn’t want the storm to pass. This was our rain—mine and      Beth’s.

“Can I come in?”

I jerk up at the sweet sound of Beth’s voice coming from the      other side of my open window. My fingers fumble with the screen and it bangs      against the house as it falls to the ground. I hold my hand out to her and help      as she swings one drenched jean-clad leg over the frame, then the other.

The dim light from my alarm clock casts a strange blue shadow      over Beth as she shakes uncontrollably next to the window. Her wet hair clings      to her head and her clothes cleave to her body. Drops of rain slither down her      face and her teeth chatter. “I hhaadd ttoo sseee youu.”

“Here, use this to towel off.” I drape a blanket around her      shoulders, stare at her to convince myself she’s really here, then rummage      through my drawer. I pull out a T-shirt and a pair of cotton sweatpants and hand      them to her. In one quick motion, I turn. “Change. I promise I won’t look.”

Though I want to. She’s here and I’ll do anything to keep her      from running. Beth feels like this storm. Constant and persistent as a whole,      but the more I get close and try to clutch the individual drops of rain, the      more the water falls out of my hands.

I hear the sound of wet material stubbornly moving against her      skin and then the sound of cotton being tugged over her head. “Okay,” she says      in a small voice.

I suck in a breath and suppress the groan. She’s absolutely      killing me. My T-shirt ends at the middle of her bare thighs. “Are you going to      put the pants on?”

Beth shrugs. “They’ll just fall off.”

She’s right. I force my eyes to her face. “I’m glad you’re      here. I’ve been worried about you.” About us.

Beth fidgets with the hem of my T-shirt. “I can’t say it      back.”

And she crushes me into nothing.

“But I want to.”

Hope. A single thread exists and it keeps Beth and me alive.      “Because you want to love me or because you do?”

She straightens out the shirt and runs her fingers through her      hair. “What if I do? Feel that way?”

I let her words sink in. Beth loves me. My heart settles and I      swallow to find my bearings.

“Because if I do...” She stalls and I start to wonder if her      trembling is from the cold or from her emotions. “And you...” Beth sucks in air,      then lifts her head so that her eyes plead with mine. “I can’t say it, but I...I      want to be here...with you.”

We’re still on shaky ground—Beth and I. If I do the wrong      thing, she’ll bolt. The rain picks up and patters harder against the roof. My      ribbon clings to her wrist. Beth doesn’t believe in the unseen. She needs a      physical reminder that I mean what I say.

My eyes dart around the room and discover the perfect object on      my dresser. I brush past Beth, grab the clear bottle, and pour the scant remains      of cologne out the window.

“What are you doing?” she asks as if I lost my mind. Who knows,      I probably have.

I hold the bottle out into the rain and watch as the steady      flow slowly fills it. When there is enough, enough that Beth can clearly see, I      close the bottle and hand it to her.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow, but accepts the bottle.

“It’s our rain, Beth.”

Her head barely shakes to show her confusion while I rub the      back of my neck and search for my courage. “I told you I loved you in this rain      and when you doubt my words, I want you to look at this bottle.”

Beth’s forehead wrinkles and she stares at the gift I’ve given      her. “I don’t...” she starts. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

“You’re here,” I answer. “It’s all I want.”

Her fingers tighten around the bottle. “I still can’t say      it.”

“I don’t care.”

Beth crawls onto my bed and I join her by lying like we did the      first night she came to my room. If she needs space, I’ll give her space. This      time, Beth immediately places her head on me. The bare skin of my chest screams      in protest of her cold, wet hair. I focus on not flinching or shivering. I won’t      give her a reason to turn away.