Page 7 of Holding On To Good

He wasn’t supposed to say her name that way, soft and gruff and filled with regret.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not when she’d finally accepted her feelings for him. When she’d finally been brave and given herself permission to go after what she really wanted.

This was her fault. She’d hurt him and he wasn’t ready to forget. Wasn’t quite ready to forgive. But she could change that.

She could fix this.

Heart racing, she set her hands on his shoulders and rose onto her toes, lifting her face to his. He stiffened and made a sound, but it wasn’t until she pressed against him—thighs, belly and chest—that she realized it wasn’t an encouragement, but a rebuff.

Wasn’t until his fingers tightened on her shoulder that she realized he wasn’t drawing her closer but was trying to hold her back.

Wasn’t until she kissed the hard ridge of his jaw that she knew she’d just made a huge, horrible mistake.

He’d turned away from her. Given her his cheek.

Stumbling back, she bowed her head and hugged her arms around herself. Humiliation swamped her, a hot wave of embarrassment and nausea that had sweat breaking out on the nape of her neck and bile bubbling up her throat.

“Willow,” he said again, stepping toward her, but now it was her turn to lead their dance.

His one step forward. Her two steps back.

“I don’t… I thought…”

I don’t understand.

I thought you wanted me.

He glanced at the floor, his hard grip denting his soda can. “I can’t,” he said, so gently, with so much kindness it made her want to weep.

Gentleness. Kindness. But not regret. Not doubt.

“If you’re trying to hurt me,” she whispered, her throat raw, her nose stinging with unshed tears, “it’s working.”

“I’m not. I swear.”

She snorted, but it came out closer to a sob. “No? Because this feels a lot like payback.”

“It’s not.” He stared down at the can in his hands as if looking for his next words there. “I’m with Miranda now.”

Willow jerked, like a puppet on a string. Glanced up to make sure she wasn’t one for real.

That Miranda Watterson wasn’t the one pulling the strings.

Ever since Miranda and her family moved to Mount Laurel last fall, she’d had her sights set on Urban. Flirting with him every freaking time she saw him, batting her heavily mascaraed eyes and flipping her long, honey-colored hair. Always finding an excuse to touch him or brush her curvy body against him.

She was Satan in a Mount Laurel High cheerleader outfit and now she’d gotten her pom-poms on Urban.

“When?” she asked, the word strangled.

He shifted. Rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “We’ve been hanging out for a few weeks.”

Weeks. He and Miranda had been spending time together for weeks and she hadn’t known.

Because they hadn’t been spending as much time together. Because he hadn’t been talking to her, the girl who’d been his best friend since the third grade. But he had found the time to hang out with a girl he’d only known a few months.

She wanted to smack him.

But then, she also wanted to sit on the floor and cry her eyes out, so obviously her emotions or her reactions to those emotions couldn’t be trusted at the moment.

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