Page 39 of Remember Us This Way

“In his Camaro? Wow. How was it, sweetheart?”

“Henry!” My mother scolds him before flicking her gaze back to mine. “Wait. I didn’t see his car in the driveway. Where is it?”

“I might have dumped it at the park and then walked home, but don’t worry,” I rush out. “The park is safe. It’s not like anything is going to happen to it. Plus, I still have the keys. I just . . . felt that after three years of radio silence, he deserved a little payback while on the road to redemption.”

Mom shakes her head. “I worry about you, Zoey.”

“What?” I say as a slow grin stretches across my face. “Try and tell me he didn’t deserve it. Besides, if I’m the one putting myself at risk trying to help him, then shouldn’t I get a little something for my troubles?”

Mom scoops up her wine again, taking a long, healthy sip. “As far as I’m aware,” she mutters to herself, “you two were made for one another. Now go set the table. They should be here in an hour.”

Scurrying out of the kitchen and into the dining room, I get ready to set the table when I hear mom turn on my father. “Now you,” she says. “Where do you get off butting into Zoey and Noah’s business?”

“What?” Dad responds. “She steals a car, and I’m the one getting in trouble? Where’s the sanity in that?”

“Oh God,” Mom says. “I knew I should have bought more wine.”

16

Noah

She stole my fucking car.

Innocent little Zoey fucking James stole my car, and not only that, but she did a burnout right up the main street in front of the school.

What in the fresh hell was that?

I stare at her across the dining table, my fingers drumming on the hard wood, unable to look away. I don’t know if I want to get in her face or applaud her for a job well done. If it had been anyone else or any other car, I might even go as far as to say that I was impressed, maybe even a little turned on. Okay, a lot turned on, but this is Zoey, and I shouldn’t be thinking of her like that.

Showing up here, I quickly realized my Camaro wasn’t in the driveway, and my anger has been boiling beneath the surface ever since. What the fuck did she do with it? Knowing Zoey, this is all part of her master plan. She has more in store for me, and I’m playing right into the palm of her hand. But what else am I supposed to do? She’s holding my car hostage and I’m not about to let her get away with it.

She glares right back at me as our parents try to hold some semblance of a conversation. They’re either oblivious to the tension in the room or going well out of their way to ignore it. But to me, all that exists right now is Zoey and the smug grin resting on her full lips.

Fuck, I want to kiss them so bad, but not like the way I used to. I’ve kissed her thousands of times before, each one just as amazing as the last, but they were the kind of kisses an innocent boy gives to the girl of his dreams, nothing but a respectable peck here and there. But the way I want to kiss her right now. That’s different. I want to claim her, kiss her so fucking deeply that her knees crumble, and I have to grasp her waist just to keep her on her feet.

Damn it.

I knew transferring to East View High and seeing her again was going to screw with my resolve. Zoey James is not mine anymore. I tore her to shreds, and I sure as hell don’t have the right to think about her like this or want her in a way I never have before. Especially considering the way I’ve hurt her.

Being back here, surrounded by the walls that hold so many of our childhood memories, has brought a surge of nostalgia swirling within me. This is where I first realized how deeply I loved her. It’s where I stood out in the yard as a seven-year-old boy and got down on one knee, proposed to her, and told her she was the most beautiful girl I ever knew. We were only playing then, but there was such a profound truth to those words. Not the proposal bit, but the part about Zoey being beautiful. She always has been. Undeniably so.

Officially, I haven’t been here in over three years. Unofficially, I’ve snuck through Zoey’s bedroom window more times than I care to admit. Usually only when things are at their worst, or when I feel like I’m about to spiral. I come here and sit in her room, and by the time I leave, I feel grounded again, as if just being closer to her could somehow make everything better. Not that I’ll be telling her that.

Fuck, had she caught me during those dark moments, or if I had set my eyes upon her and seen that light that always seems to shine so brightly, I know I would have crumbled.

There have been a few times where I’ve sat on the roof outside her bedroom window as she slept, staring out at the street, refusing to peer in at the broken girl inside. I know she feels like I’ve put this distance between us, and she’s right, I have, but in some way, I’ve always been right here, she just never knew it.

My fingers continue drumming against the table as I refuse to break our stare. With every passing second, it feels as though that invisible string between us pulls just a little bit tighter, but soon enough, it’s bound to snap.

Irritation burns through me. I hate that just the sight of her is screwing with my head. I’m trying to keep her at arm’s length, not draw her back in. There’s a reason I pushed her away, and despite how every last piece of me is screaming to have her back in my arms, I need to keep this distance. Her father was right on Friday night. I’m a troubled kid. I’m heading down a path I won’t be able to claw my way back from, and I refuse to drag her down with me. The darkness has consumed me, and while she shines brighter than any star in the sky, my darkness will drown her.

Tension rolls off me, and the longer I relentlessly hold her stare, the faster her resolve begins to crumble. There’s a silent challenge lingering in the air between us, but neither of us is willing to say a word or give in. She never could handle the intensity of my stare. I have to give it to her though, she’s putting in a good effort.

The sound of cutlery against the plates mixes with the conversation flowing around the table. I don’t miss the way Zoey just sits there, letting her food go cold, too preoccupied with this current battle for dominance that seems to be going down between us.

When she stole my car after school, she turned this disastrous game into a cold-blooded battle, and if that’s the way she wants to play, then so be it. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. The only question is, can she handle it?

Zoey blindly reaches in front of her, closes her hand around her glass of water, and lifts it to her lips. Just as she tips the glass and takes a sip, I lift my foot under the table and brace it against her chair, right between her knees. She sputters into her water, her eyes widening before she chokes and breaks her stare.

---