Page 20 of The Kiss of Deception

“Only if they come with the baby blues and daddy issues.”

Miles chuckles softly, as though it’s a good joke. I’m not entirely sure it was a joke at all.

Recognizing the tickling telltale signs of my legs falling asleep under me, I rise clumsily from the floor and snuggle on the couch. My chilly bare feet brush against his forearm. He retreats quickly, getting up and polishing off the remaining lasagna on his way to the kitchen.

I study the waning moon, lonely in the distant sky, cloudy mist blowing by and blurring it. Some part always hidden, the elusive thing.

It’s past eleven now. Lights go out below while others stay shining. On his way back, Miles grabs the blanket folded on one of the one seats and drapes it over my legs.

“What about books?” I nuzzle into the fuzzy blanket, wanting to chase that drowsy feeling now that my stomach is satisfied, my feet warm.

I’ve seen Miles carrying stacks of books on multiple occasions. Many glimpses stolen by the press, too, of Miles Blackstein boarding a plane or walking into a stadium, always with a book cradled against in his hand.

“I read a lot, yeah.” He rubs the corner of his lip with a thumb, pondering how much he’s willing to share. “My mom’s a librarian. I was basically born with a book in my hands. I can’t recall a single night I didn’t fall asleep to her voices and a story. Sometimes, she would make them up.”

My eyelids feel heavy. So, so heavy. With my eyes closed, I still see the soft smile in his voice, the unequivocal unending love for his mother, the nostalgia, the homesickness.

“Alice in Wonderland was my favorite.”

Stories of Miles Blackstein’s childhood lull me into a weightless sleep where dreams feel like floating and flying and falling into safe arms.

And when I wake up hours later, sun kissing my face and sheets hugging my shoulders, I’m in my bed.

Chapter Six

Miles

My lips are permanently arranged in the shape of a smile.

They don’t know how else to exist, as though their corners are perpetually strummed up to my cheeks. Whether that’s the consequence or the evidence of a happy childhood, I’m not sure. Although I like to think it’s both, it is probably neither.

In the days that passed since the night spent in Zoe’s company, however, they felt it. My lips felt that smile, and they carried it shamelessly.

I wouldn’t try to pretend the reason isn’t Zoe Westwood.

It’s been days since I last saw her. I searched for her—I always do, sometimes unaware what I'm searching for until my eyes land on her and just stop, struck by her. And if they don’t find her, disappointment sets in. Frustratingly, I think I will always scan every room hoping to find her.

But I haven’t seeked her. I want nothing more than to be close to her and learn everything about her until I know her with my eyes closed. I know she needs a break, though. She needs space to breathe and time to process our shifting dynamic and, hopefully, recognize that I’m not the devil she’s so sure I am.

That was my first mistake. Well, one of my first mistakes.

I’ve been suffocating her. For months on end, I’ve pestered and provoked Zoe with loaded words and tantalizing smirks. A beggar for any scrap of her attention—and hating myself for it, too. Starved, I survived on the only thing she gave me, and her poison became the fuel of my blood.

It’s intoxicating.

Everyone else gets practiced smiles and clipped words and the bored blink of her lashes. She’s ice: polished and impenetrable.

With me, she’s proof that ice burns, too—and still, I can’t let go. She can burn me to the bone, and still, I wouldn’t be able to open my hand and let go.

I find solace in the fact that I seem to be the only one able to make the ice queen lose her composure. That I can disrupt her rigid balance just a little—like she has disrupted my life since the moment I saw her. She’s taken possession of my entire mental space, uninvited and unapologetic, painting her pretty face with vibrant watercolors on the forefront of my skull. Every time I close my eyes, it’s her portrait I see.

Like I was grieving something that never started, and acceptance wasn’t the final stage. Revenge was, petty as that is.

So, again and again, I’ve done it—resorted to the dumbest tactic in the playbook, pulling the pigtails of the prettiest girl on the playground because I like her too much. And I hate that I don’t stand a chance with her.

It kept some semblance of sanity in all the weeks and months on end I’ve lain awake and alone as I reevaluated all my truths and questioned my choices. As I told myself lies upon lies.

The evidence of it is right there in my eagerness to jump at the first—and tiniest—possibility to make her mine. Of the countless false prayers I repeated to myself in feeble attempts to evict her from my head, while hoping beyond hope for a way to change our circumstances.

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