Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(22)

And a fuckup would include … right.

“I see.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I mean, Jesus, it’s not like I expected you to be here. It’s so ridiculous.”

That was another thing with Will. Everything was “ridiculous,” from minor anomalies to life-altering events. I had to fight a smile hearing that word again. Even if it did kind of apply in this situation.

“I was scared, okay? What I did over the summer … like, what we did, isn’t something I would’ve done with anyone from around here. I thought it was safe.”

Right. So he’d been counting on never having to see me again. Bam. Ouch.

“Then it’s like, oh, hey, Ollie is right fucking there, and now some people know, and for a second I thought that was it. Like well, here we go, now everyone’s about to find out everything.” He paused to let me speak. When I didn’t, he went on. “I had to see you, though. I haven’t thought about anything else since the party. I was just scared. I mean, you’re here.”

He touched my arm. Even though it made me shiver, and my blood heat up by several degrees, and my stomach kick up, I yanked away. The anger was well and truly back, and it wasn’t having any of my body’s romance bullshit.

Will blinked at me, hurt. “I’m so glad to see you,” he tried.

“Yeah, I can tell,” I said, gesturing at the walls. So glad to see me he couldn’t even be seen speaking to me. So glad he’d taken two weeks to text me after getting his phone back. Clearly he was rapturous.

“I have to get to class,” I said, trying to push past him.

He blocked me. “Wait.”

“I have claustrophobia.”

“You do not.”

“As romantic as I find chatting around dustpans and rags, Will, I think I’m going to have to decline. Let me know if you ever want to talk somewhere with oxygen, but until then, good luck with college.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.” The lie was so blatant that Will scoffed at me. I didn’t care. “We’re late. Come on.”

“No.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” I squeezed past him and opened the door. Sweet air and light.

Will hesitated. Like he expected me to go back in and join him for a bit longer. To do what? Have another somewhat heartbreaking conversation? Kiss him? In a goddamnit-I-can’t-believe-I’m-even-saying-this closet? No way.

When he didn’t follow, I gave him a sweet smile, and shut the door on him. Right in his face. I stared at the door, surprised at my own gall. I didn’t know I had that much sass dwelling under the surface. I felt a little guilty, but mostly I was impressed with myself.

With a tiny laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob— except it couldn’t be, because I’d promised not to cry anymore—I turned on my heel and hurried to class without turning back to see if Will had let himself out.

I’d won that round. The spiteful side of me was polishing a trophy with a smug grin.

So why was the rest of me so hollow?





9


“Who are these guys again?”

Will’s cheek was barely an inch from mine. We lay side by side on my bed, sharing headphones. It was one of those rare afternoons where I’d managed to score the house to myself. Our fingertips were spidering around each other’s, our hands resting on my thigh.

I bumped my phone to light it up for him. “Letlive. Good, right?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“Surprising because you’re a music snob?”

Will smiled, and touched his temple to mine. “Shut up.” His tone was all warm and tender. The way a guy talks to someone he really likes. I knew that tone. It was the first time I’d heard him use it. A part of me died with happiness. Straight-up curled into a ball and died. “I guess whenever I hear the word ‘punk,’ I think, like, Blink-182 or Fall Out Boy.”

“Both solid bands. You’d better not be knocking them.”

“I am a bit.”

“We can agree to disagree.”

“They’re a bit more … simple than this.”

“I guess. They’re pop punk junk food.”

Will laughed. “I love that. That’s perfect. Pop punk junk food.”

Rejuvenated, I started flicking through my albums. “If you like them, you should check out these guys. They have this thing they do with harmonies that’s just argh, and the drummer, God, I could listen to a whole album of just his solos. Hold on, I’ll find them—what?”

Will was staring at me with a funny little smile. “Nothing. It’s cute how passionate you get about music. I feel like you could convince Bach all he was missing was some heavy bass guitar.”

“I really like music, I guess. So sue me.”

“Yeah, well, I really like you. So sue me.”



Tuesday, 4:02 PM

I’m sorry.



I didn’t speak to Will again after that morning in the closet. He did try to text me, once, later that day, but I forced myself to ignore it. I knew myself, and I wasn’t much of a “let’s stay friends” kind of person. If I didn’t cut Will off cold-turkey, I’d end up pining over him, all hopelessly devoted, and hurt, and unrequited. Well, like, more than I was currently.