The One (The Selection, #3)(20)

“I’m sorry,” he said. He looked out over the city. I was temporarily distracted by the way his shirt was sticking to his chest. “I don’t think there’s a way to undo that one, America.”

“You don’t have to. I just wanted you to know it was happening. And I can handle it.”

“You’re too tough for him. He doesn’t understand you.” He reached down for my hand, and I gave it to him freely.

I tried to think of anything else I might want to know, but it mostly pertained to the other girls, and I didn’t want to bother with that. I was sure at this point I could guess close enough to the truth, and if I was wrong, I didn’t think I wanted that to ruin this.

Maxon looked down at my wrist. “Do you . . .” He looked up at me, seeming to rethink his question. “Do you want to dance?”

I nodded. “But I’m awful.”

“We’ll go slow.”

Maxon pulled me close, placing a hand on my waist. I put one hand in his and used the other to pick up my soaking dress. We swayed, barely moving. I settled my cheek on Maxon’s chest, he rested his chin on my head, and we spun to the music of the rain.

As he made his grip on me a little bit tighter, it felt like all the bad had been erased and Maxon and I were stripped to the core of our relationship. We were friends who realized they didn’t want to be without each other. We were the other’s opposite in many ways but also so very similar. I couldn’t call our relationship fate, but it did seem bigger than anything I’d known before.

I raised my face to Maxon’s, placing a hand on his cheek, pulling him down for a kiss. His lips, wet, met mine with a brush of heat. I felt both his hands wrap around my back, holding me to him as if he’d fall apart otherwise. While the rain pummeled the roof, the whole world went silent. It felt like there wasn’t enough of him, not enough skin or space or time.

After all these months of trying to reconcile what I wanted and hoped for, I realized then—in this moment Maxon created just for us—that it would never make sense. All I could do was move forward and hope that whenever we drifted, we would somehow find a way back to each other.

And we had to. Because . . . because . . .

For as long as it took to get to this moment, when it came it was fast.

I loved Maxon. For the first time, I could feel it solidly. I wasn’t keeping the feeling at a distance, holding on to Aspen and all the what-ifs that went along with him. I wasn’t walking into Maxon’s affections while keeping one foot out the door in case he let me down. I simply let it come.

I loved him.

I couldn’t pinpoint what made me so certain, but I knew it then, as surely as I knew my name or the color of the sky or any fact written in a book.

Could he feel it, too?

Maxon broke the kiss and looked at me. “You’re so pretty when you’re a mess.”

I laughed nervously. “Thank you. For that and for the rain and for not giving up.”

He ran his fingers along my cheek and nose and chin. “You’re worth it. I don’t think you get that. You’re worth it to me.”

I felt as if my heart was on the edge of bursting, and I just wanted everything to end today. My world had settled onto a new axis, and it felt like the only way to handle how dizzy it made me was for us to finally be real. I felt certain now that it would come. It would have to. Soon.

Maxon kissed the tip of my nose. “Let’s go get dry and watch a movie.”

“Sounds good.”

I carefully tucked my love for Maxon away in my heart, a little afraid of this feeling. Eventually, it would have to be shared, but for now it was my secret.

I tried to wring out my dress in the little canopy where the door was, but it was hopeless. I was going to leave a little trail of water back to my room.

“I vote for a comedy,” I said as we went down the stairs, Maxon leading the way.

“I vote for action.”

“Well, you just said I was worth it, so I think I’m going to win this one.”

Maxon laughed. “Nicely done.”

He chuckled again as he pushed on the panel that led us back into the parlor only to stop dead in his tracks a second later.

I peeked over his shoulder to see King Clarkson standing there, looking as irritated as ever.

“I’m assuming this was your idea,” he said to Maxon.

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea how much danger you put yourself in?” he demanded.

“Father, there are no rebels waiting on the roof,” Maxon countered, trying to sound rational but looking a bit ridiculous in his dripping clothes.

“One well-aimed bullet is all it would take, Maxon.” He let the words hang in the air. “You know we’re stretched tight, sending guards to watch the girls’ homes. And dozens of those who’ve been sent have gone AWOL. We’re vulnerable.” He glared past his son at me. “And why is it that when anything happens these days, she’s got her hands all over it?”

We stood there, silent, knowing there was nothing we could say anyway.

“Get cleaned up,” the king ordered. “You have work to do.”

“But I—”

A single look from his father told Maxon that any plans he’d had for the day were done.

“Very well,” he said, caving.