The Hearts We Sold(56)

He gave her every opportunity to retreat, but she did not flinch away.

He kissed her. His lips were gentle, as if asking a question, but his fingers were tight on her arm, as if afraid she might suddenly vanish.

It was a sweet, warming thing—like taking a sip of hot chocolate on a misty, cold morning. The world simply tuned out for a moment, and the silence was the most beautiful thing Dee had ever heard.

They drifted apart.

“We probably shouldn’t,” she said.

His face cleared. “If that’s what you want.” He said the words without any trace of hurt or disappointment. Again, simple words. But this time they were not intended to wound.

She kissed him.

His lips were warm, soft, and they contrasted sharply with the stubble along his jaw. His hands were soft, too, and he was cradling the back of her neck, his thumb skimming along her hairline, sending shivers through her.

No one had ever kissed her like this. There had been a few parties, middle school encounters with spin the bottle and one memorable occasion with seven minutes in heaven when she and Trevor Farley had not made eye contact until the last thirty seconds, when he said, “Should we just try it?” It had been too wet and had simply felt like two mouths mashing together.

This kiss was soft, tentative. James’s lips barely moved against hers—just tiny whispers of sensation that swooped through her stomach.

This time he was the one to pull away, to gaze at her face as if trying to decipher her thoughts. “Was that okay?”

“Why’d you kiss me?” she asked instead. As if she had not just kissed him right back.

His cheeks colored. “I told you before. We could die any day. Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

A long pause.

“So you’re saying that I’m the full-fat cream cheese,” she said.

He pressed his lips together, his mouth twitching in an effort not to smile. “I would have given you a cuter nickname, I swear.” His mirth faded. “Listen, Dee. I get it. I’m not your type. You like stability and all that, and I’m—well. Me. If you want to just stay friends, I won’t hold it against you. Really, I won’t.”

She was afraid to want this. Afraid to rely on anyone, because she knew how easily they could slip away.

“It’s possible I may have trust issues,” she said.

“Shocking” was his deadpan answer.

He needed to know why this was such a bad idea. “James,” she said. “I—I don’t think I can do this. Broken little pieces, remember? I’m not sure I’m capable of loving anyone—not if I can’t trust anyone.”

His mouth thinned out. “You are not broken,” he said. “Dee, you’re fine. I like you. You—as you are now.”

The breath caught in her throat; she should have just pushed him away—it would have made everything easier. But… she found herself unable to say those words. “Could I just… have some time to think about this?”

She had always thought of herself as broken. She had crafted the word into armor, used it to keep the world at bay, to keep all her little pieces from completely falling apart.

She wondered what it would be like not to carry it around. And maybe this was the first step, maybe letting someone in was how all people did this.

He gave her a brilliant, lopsided smile. “Hey, neither of us is aging at the moment. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

She had forgotten about that—that her life would likely be two years longer than it should have been, thanks to this deal of hers. But then again, that was assuming she lived through this. Perhaps that was the way fairy-tale deals always worked, all or nothing, a long life or one cut tragically short.

“Thank you,” she said. For the kiss, for understanding, for simply being him. She wanted to somehow convey that, to tell him that she appreciated him without saying as much in words. She reached down, found his hand with hers. His fingers were dry and warm, his nails edged with charcoal. He seemed to understand; a smile played over his mouth.

Their fingers tangled, wrists pressed together.

No pulse between them.





Back in the hotel room, Dee thought things might be awkward. But somehow, they weren’t. James clicked on the television again, then went to shower. Dee sat on her bed, eating a cold egg roll and half listening to the news.

They couldn’t stay here much longer. It was Saturday—and she needed to be back at school by curfew tomorrow. No doubt Gremma would have covered for her in the meantime. Gremma was good for that, even if she was still angry. Dee felt a pang of worry at the thought of returning to her old life; this road trip had been an escape, a way to ignore the pain that would inevitably be felt upon her return. She didn’t want to think about it. Not her parents, not the empty bank account, not her tangled friendship with her roommate.

Ah, well. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

Dee was using her chopsticks to eat the last of the fried rice when she heard the news anchor say, “… cause unknown. But the force of the explosion took out half a city block.”

Dee looked up.

A blond man stood with his fingers pressed to his ear, the other hand holding a mic. “As you can see, Rachel,” he was saying, “the police have roped off the area—but we did manage to get a chopper in overhead. You should be seeing the footage now.”