Page 26 of Until We Fall

Holy fuck, I said that.

But it’s not relief that I feel. It’s heartbreak. Because I should’ve said it so long ago.

I should have asked to kiss him that night three weeks ago. I should have gone after him when he stumbled away. I should have told him after the shower that I was thinking ofhim.

Well… maybe I should keep that one to myself for now.

But, regardless, I should have done so many things differently.

I always step back. I always give him space. But maybe I give too much. Maybe that’s part of what’s made three and a half years go by.

“I more than like you,” I say. My voice roughens. I want to step closer to him, but I force myself to stay where I am. I don’t want him to run again. “I think about you all the time. I fantasize about you. I dream about you. I wake up smothering you because I want to be close to you. Anything that I can do, I pretty much do it.”

“I…” He lets out a shaky breath. “Why are you saying this?”

He’s shaking his head, like I don’t understand, or I don’t see.

But I do. I seehim. In so much clarity. The freckles along his nose, and the hard angle of his shoulders, and the size of the huge heart that beats in his chest—the one that he always seems to disregard for his brain, butIknow it’s there. I can see it right now. And it’s hurting.

“I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He shakes his head. “D, there’s no way that?—”

“Why do you keep dismissing what I’m saying?” A shot of annoyance pushes through me, that he’s not listening to me, but I shove it aside and take a small step forward. I want to understand what he’s thinking. “Why are you so convinced I couldn’t like you?”

His lips tighten. “Experience? Common sense? I mean, hell, D. You’re this six-foot-tall, gorgeous man who?—”

“Five eleven and three-quarters.”

He flinches. “What?”

“If we’re getting technical about it, I’m five eleven and three-quarters. Not six feet.”

He groans. “Who cares?”

“Apparentlyyoudo. So, I’m taller than you. So what?”

“It’s not just that. It’severything.” He shivers. “You’re hot. Like stop-and-stare kind of hot. Up on that stage? The way people were cheering for you? And I can’t—” He keeps shaking, pressing his lips and releasing them. “You look like the guy they put on the magazine cover, and I’m the nerd editing the ad copy.”

I blink at him. “Nerds are hot.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t joke.”

“I’mnot.” I hazard another step forward, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his sunblock. I can see the hatches onthe pineapple tattoo, and it awakens everything, tickling in my stomach.

“Rory…” I start softer, trying to figure out how to put my feelings into words. I want him to understand. I want to phrase it in a way that makes sense to him. “You give me butterflies.”

He stares at me.

I stare back, my throat thick, my heart hammering.

Seconds tick by.

A minute?

It’s a long time, and my last sentence just hangs there, lingering, so much meaning tucked into those four words.

You give me butterflies.

---