Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(63)

I reached into her lap for her hands, slipping my fingers through hers as my throat locked up.

She sighed and met my eyes with a smile that spoke to me of optimism and strength. “Even when we can’t go on, we go on. Because the world keeps turning and the clock keeps ticking and our hearts keep beating even if we sometimes wish they would just stop. And so what else can we do with that inevitable time but honor the ones we lost by finding joy again? I’ve come to find that it’s the only way I’ve been able to stitch what’s left of me back together.”

I drew a breath from deep in my lungs and let it slip out of me. “Where in the world did you come from, Annie?”

She smiled. “Out in the sticks and rivers.”

“Must have been a good place to hide.”

“Oh, it was. But I was never one for hiding.”

“No,” I said softly, “I don’t suppose you were.”

She turned back to her dinner, and the conversation drifted to easier things, things with less rust and pain. But mostly I just listened to her, watched her. Heard her. Saw her.

It wasn’t her eyes, as wide and vibrant as they were, and it wasn’t the swell or bow of her lips, as soft and lovely as they were. It wasn’t the shine in her golden hair, and it wasn’t her long, elegant fingers. It was Annie herself. Her beauty burned in her chest, in a heart that beat without rhythm.

And for a moment, everything was perfect.

The girl sitting at my elbow. The smile on her face. The way her bright eyes drank in the twinkling opulence and undemanding charm of the restaurant. The way her creamy skin looked against the crimson of the booth.

Perfect, except for one thing.

I’d tried to convince myself I could be her friend and nothing more. I’d considered the earnestness of her feelings, the depths I knew to be true; she cared for me and wanted me, just not in the way I wanted her.

I’d told myself I would take her any way I could get her. But the moment I’d first seen her tonight, I’d caught a glimpse of the truth; the task would not be simple or easy. And with every passing minute, that truth became more apparent, more invasive.

I couldn’t be Annie’s friend.

All things had a line that, once crossed, could not be stepped back over. And I had reached that line, passed it without realizing until I looked down. But instead of finding myself in her arms, I was pressed against the glass, the separation between us as thin as it was impenetrable.

And despite that knowledge, I didn’t want to be anywhere else but exactly where I was.

Before we left the restaurant, I took her upstairs to the Bear Lounge. But I didn’t see the bear aquarium or the perch swimming around in his vast belly; I saw her face bright with wonder as she peered inside, holding her breath. I didn’t see the glass ceiling; I saw the colored lights on her cheeks and bridge of her nose as she tipped her small chin up to look. I didn’t see the tree laden with glass eggs; I saw Annie with her fingertips pressed to her parted lips as she stepped under the branches, reaching for my hand without looking to pull me under with her.

But she’d pulled me under long before that moment.



Annie

I watched behind a curtain of tears as the music crescendoed and Romeo ran to Juliet’s stone pedestal where she lay dead. Blinking only cleared my vision for a moment at a time, and I fought the urge to close my eyes.

I didn’t want to miss a single thing.

And so my tears spilled down my cheeks in hot streams as I reached for Greg’s hand, needing something to tether me to the ground. Romeo tried to wake her, lifted her up, and Juliet was a rag doll but still graceful, poised and beautiful, even in death. And the poison slipped past his lips just as she woke. The vision of her hands on his face and hers bent in pain, shining with tears. His body, too heavy to lift. The dagger, too sharp for hesitation. And she crawled back to him, nestled in his chest, held his face once more, pressed a final kiss to his lips, and then she was gone.

Their parents entered to find them both dead, and I sagged into Greg, my eyes finally closing as I let the wash of emotion win, my hiccuping sobs drowned out by the orchestra. And the curtain closed as the applause rose. We were on our feet in a breath, clapping through the curtain call, clapping until our hands stung and cheeks ached from smiling.

People began to exit, standing to pack the aisles, but rather than follow them, Greg sat.

I eyed him curiously. “Don’t like waiting in lines?”

At that, he smiled. “No, it’s just that I know how you love surprises.”

My eyes widened with my smile. “What did you do?”

“You’ll see. Come here and sit for a minute.”

I did as I’d been told and leaned on the armrest between us. He was beautiful beyond the strong features of his face, beyond the lines of his body, defined brilliantly by the architecture of his suit. His beauty lay in the depths of his eyes where his heart and soul lived, in the joy of his laughter and the way he cared. Because he did care; he cared deeply.

There had been a moment under the egg tree in the restaurant when I turned my gaze from the wonders of our surroundings and met his eyes. I didn’t know if it was the magic of the moment or something more, something in the air between us, something in his heart or mine. But for that long moment, we stood under the branches and breathed, our eyes connected. We connected. And I thought—wished—he might kiss me.