Impulsion (Station 32 #1)(62)
He felt like an ass then. She was walking, and it wasn’t a short walk by any means; better than a mile down the path. Hope came to him, though, when he imagined her walking to the edge of the fence looking for him or a golf cart; that meant her mind was in the past, right where he wanted it to be.
Harley was well into her long, dark, lonely walk when she saw a twinkling of lights in the distance. She had just about convinced herself he would not be there when she got there, managed to tell herself if she faced the memories, it would help her in the long run. One. Foot. In. Front. Of. The. Other. That was what she said with each step.
She turned the light off on her phone and gazed at each and every candle lighting her path, feeling her breath hitch, adrenaline saturate her body; she was near numb. Just the idea of him was making her body hurt with want. That last night on this creek side, all the nights before when he held her and they counted the stars above, she was swimming in those sensations.
The path led her right to the very tree they laid under, the one that at one time had a blanket wrapped in plastic nestled in its trunk.
Down below her, she saw candles floating, not only in the part of the creek that pooled, but down its path, snaking through the distant darkness.
She felt him before she ever saw him, the gravity of him emerging behind her, the scent of his cologne, that hint of leather, the touch of Earth glided by her on the breeze that brought chills to her shoulders.
That dress. God, that dress. It was going to be the death of Wyatt. If it wasn’t the same one, it might as well have been. He could remember how it moved against her skin before, how easily his hands slid beneath it, all the secrets that one little piece of cloth hid from him long ago and on this night.
“It’s…beautiful…” she whispered into the night.
“I thought to hang these lights before…but each time I went to…I decided it was best for some things to stay in the dark.”
Harley turned to face him, not sure how to read the tone in his voice. It sounded so hard, coarse. He was making her head spin again. All around her was the most romantic gesture she had ever witnessed. It meant twice as much because of where it was, who was standing there with her, but that tone didn’t match up with what she was witnessing.
His haunted blue eyes gleamed within the night that was kissed by those twinkling lights. His jaw was clenched, his body tense. “This morning…you and me started an argument…we never finished it.”
Harley tilted her head slightly. This morning was a lifetime away in her mind, and until he said that she had forgotten how they even managed to end up against that wall. Then she remembered how cold she was, how she had accused him of sleeping around, but that was done because she thought that blonde was his, a null and void point now.
Harley had to admit to herself that it still burned her that he had never denied being with another, that she was sure there had to be someone. But at the same time, she knew she had no right to feel that way, not really. She’d been with Collin, four—very awkward—times.
Four times that she regretted, not because he was a bad lover or a bad partner, because in all truth, anyone else would have walked away from her after that first night, as she silently cried for the boy she was still in love with. Instead, Collin became her closest friend, her defender, someone who was willing to bear blame in the path they took before all those back home.
“Wyatt…I just wanted to know who you are now…I asked the question wrong.”
He raised his hand to stop her, saw her flinch. That action almost infuriated him. He wanted to know who had managed to make her so fragile, more fragile than when she was his. She’s still yours, he said to himself. You can make her feel safe again.
“You deserve an answer,” he said in the calmest tone he could manage.
“So do you. You misunderstood my life now, why it’s the way it is—j…” She stopped short. He’d looked away, sucked in a breath, even stepped away, almost turned his back on her. “Wyatt,” she breathed.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Harley, I have a lot to say, and if you go on I won’t say it…I just need you to listen…I have to say this before you and me make a mistake…”
Harley drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, tried to prepare herself for him to tell her that this current between them, this pull that was taunting her body with a want she had never felt for another soul was nothing more than a fallacy, an aftershock of a past that was just that.
“I’m not innocent. When they ripped you from me, they took all I was,” he said in a husky voice. His stare was trained on that creek below. “I have never felt a fear like that before, a pain so intense. My head was swimming, looking for a way out…Easton and me…we drank, a lot. We skipped school,” he cursed under his breath, “then all that happened on your birthday.” He dared to glance at her, lost his words for a moment.
“I knew if I stayed here…I would never get over you.” He dropped his head. “I saw you everywhere…at times I was sure I could smell you…hear your voice on the wind.”
She moved closer to him, feeling a pain in her chest, the same pain she had endured with him, states away in a different kind of hell. Somehow, knowing their pain was shared, that he ached for her as desperately as she had for him, made this seem poetic to her. She knew that this pain had left a gift behind; a lesson that taught them both that what was between them was unbreakable, unconditional.