Page 36 of Moving Forward

“I need to work on that,” he says.

“So do I,” I admit. “I was joking too.”

His lip quirks, but his forehead wrinkles worriedly. He walks around the front of the truck and slides in. He immediately starts fumbling with the GPS. “Nothing will happen,” he promises. “I’m a little obsessive when it comes to cars.”

I eye him carefully. “That’s why you turned down Grandpa’s truck when he offered to drive out and meet us.”

He remains silent, making me wonder if the conversation is going to die there. But then he admits quietly, “My mom and I were in a car wreck when I was seven. She died on impact. I was with her for a long time before the paramedics got there. That sort of thing . . . it’s hard to ride in cars other than my own or let other people drive.”

I run my fingers over his arm, silently thanking him for sharing a piece of himself. Something tells me it’s just a small piece of the puzzle that is Cain Hazelton.

There’s a lot of talk about ghosts haunting us, but I think it’s the memories that do. They hold us back from living our lives. They’re with us always.

I lean my head against the window, closing my eyes. Even if Cain blocks most of my memories from taking over, some of them still manage to filter through, parallel with the present. Like Cain cursing under his breath at the stupid GPS.

You’re going to die an old maid, Jelly, Ethan used to say. He always had a love-hate relationship with his GPS. Believe me when I say it was a relationship—he named the dang thing after all. It had once gotten us stranded in a creepy abandoned parking lot when all we were trying to do was find a restaurant. We didn’t even have time to start backing up before a cop was pulling up next to us, asking if we needed help. From then on Ethan was convinced his GPS was a secret government device trying to lead him to an alien containment center in the middle of nowhere. We spent the rest of the night sitting on the back of his car, laughing so hard our stomachs were sore. It was only our second date, but I think it was my favorite.

“We’ll stop here soon and grab a coffee,” Cain murmurs.

I blink my eyes open, hoping I’m not about to burst out into tears. How long have we been driving? I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes. Have I really been lost in my memories for that long? I’m such horrible company. I shouldn’t be with Ethan when I’m trying to be with Cain. When I want to be with Cain.

“I’m not tired,” I tell him.

“I figured.” He glances nervously at his speed, then at the speed limit sign as we pass it.

“You did? I thought—”

His grip tightens on the wheel. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Peaches.”

I sigh. Pretend? How can I pretend when I’m practically transparent around him?

“I’ll never ask you to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about, but please don’t think you have to be someone you’re not when you’re around me, okay?” He turns down the radio’s volume as we pull into the parking lot in front of a little coffee house. I guess we’re still getting the coffee. He’s definitely a man after my own heart. “I want this to be as real for you as it is for me.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to figure out the most appropriate response. The harder I think about it, the more the silence begins to feel like a plastic bag stuck on my head. I know what I want to say, but I also know what I should say—I should take the safe route. Change the subject.

He whips the car into a parking spot and something inside me lurches forward. In a split second, I suddenly know just what I have to do. I can’t pretend, not with him. Like he said, I don’t need to.

He throws the door open and gets out just as I’m about to open up to him. He walks over to my side, his shoulders slouched forward. He opens my door, and his emotionless eyes meet mine. He’s shutting down on me again. No, not this time.

“Cain—”

He leans against the truck, using his forearm as a prop. He watches the traffic beside us, unable to look at me. “I get it, okay. After this trip, I’ll back off. I’ll—”

“Stop,” I whisper over the pounding in my ears.

“I thought . . . fuck, I don’t know what I thought,” he continues. His jaw tightens the more he talks, that stoicism slowly degrading into frustration. “I just care—”

My hands shake as I cup his cheeks and turn his face toward mine, succeeding in cutting him off this time. There are thousands of tiny butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. I remember this type of nervousness, where you’re heading into the unknown but know there’s something wonderful waiting on the other side.

His breath heaves and his eyes dilate. “What are you—”

“Don’t,” I command quietly. “Just let me do this.”

He stills, not taking his off mine as I lean into him. I lick my lips. You can do this. I brush my lips across his unmoving ones, closing my eyes so I don’t have to see his bewildered expression. The contact sends a jolt of electricity down my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, until it reaches my toes, making them curl. His lips are so much softer than I expected, and his mouth seems to fit perfectly against mine. Like it was made for me.

He jerks back from me, and I finally open my eyes. His mouth is parted, and he’s searching for something—some sort of confirmation that this is what I really want. I wish he didn’t have to question it. I wish he knew that I want him as much as he wants me. He may think Ethan’s still here with us, but he’s not. I’m only thinking of Cain.

“It’s real for me,” I admit to him softly.

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