Page 31 of Sweet Nightmare

The faint pink turns to a dusty rose, and he looks more and more flummoxed as I continue to stare at him, his normally fathomless eyes more than a little wild as they focus anywhere but on me. But I’m not giving in this time, not filling up the quiet between us with soothing words to make things more comfortable for him. I used to do that all the time when we were friends, but he forfeited that courtesy a long time ago.

So now I just watch him as the silence stretches on, becoming more awkward and uncomfortable with every moment that passes until finally he throws his hands up and says, “Do you want me to clean your back or not?”

“I’m pretty sure I told you I could do it myself.”

For a second, it looks like he wants nothing more than to hand me the echinacea tonic, but in the end, he just shakes his head. “Lift the back of your shirt up, will you? I’m not going to look at anything.”

The way he says it—like it’s ridiculous for me to even imagine he would want to look at me—leaves me feeling like a total fool. Of course, his only interest in getting my shirt off is purely medicinal. This is Jude, after all, the boy who for years has treated me like I have the plague.

“Fine.” I grab the top of my shirt in the back and tug it up so that my entire back is exposed. “Just don’t hurt me again, okay?”

Because I’m suddenly afraid I’m referring to a lot more than just my back, I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m anywhere but here. With anyone but him.

Jude, of course, doesn’t even bother to answer.

But his giant hands start out gentle this time as he uses a piece of gauze to wipe away what I can only assume is blood before cleaning the large cut in the center of my lower back. The antiseptic burns more than I expect it to, but I just press my lips together and don’t say a word. Partly because I don’t want to show any weakness and partly because I’m afraid he’ll stop if I do.

I don’t have time to wait on Aunt Claudia to get here—not if I want to get to my next class before it’s over. Or at least that’s the story I’m telling myself.

It’s a good story, too, right up until the moment Jude finishes bandaging my wounds. I expect him to step back right away, but instead he lingers for just a moment, his calloused fingertips trailing across my lower back so softly that I’m not sure if I’m imagining it.

Except his fingers feel like fire as they slide across my skin, leaving enough heat in their wake to rival the thick, muggy air currently surrounding our little island. Shivers work their way down my spine, and the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up—in warning or something else, something I’m too afraid to acknowledge. I just know that I’m not pulling away, even though I really, really should.

“You should have your aunt look at them tomorrow.” The words come out stilted.

“I will.” My mouth is a desert, and I barely get the words out as I turn to face him. “Thank you.”

“Here. You can reach the rest.” He thrusts the tonic and ointment at me.

“What about you?” I reach for his hand, run a finger over the tender-looking skin. “We’re not done—”

Something flashes in his eyes at my touch, something dark and hungry—almost feral—as he quickly pulls his hand away.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, worried.

“I’m okay, Kumquat.” He breathes the words more than says them, and for a moment they hang in the air between us.

It’s been a long time since he’s called me that, and it momentarily soothes the hurt from class earlier when he called me by my real name.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He just stands there watching me through blown-out pupils, his jaw clenched and throat working double time.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the look—of the moment—I close my eyes. Take a breath.

Unconsciously, I reach for him again, but this time my fingers meet only air. Startled, I open my eyes. And realize that—once again—Jude has left me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WE ARE NEVER EVER EVER

GETTING OFF THIS ISLAND

Jude is gone. Not just stepped back gone, which would be embarrassing enough. But gone gone. Like Elvis has left the building gone.

What the actual hell?

My stomach plummets and humiliation burns my cheeks as I start cleaning up the last of the mess we’ve made of my aunt’s office. And by we, I mean him.

A bitter anger simmers in my heart as I clean. Anger at him for doing this to me again. And even more anger at myself for letting him.

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