Page 66 of Race to Me

Foster sits on a weathered piece of driftwood and slings his guitar around, putting it in front of him. I sit beside him.

His fingers strum the chords, creating a simple yet beautiful sound.The setting is so intimate; no one’s around, no lights, no people. It’s me, him, and his guitar. “The night you were drunk, you said butterflies.”

“Hmm?” I ask, pulling my lips together in embarrassment. Then, I give an awkward nod.

“What did it mean?”

“You,” I say, blushing furiously. “You give me butterflies. I always heard about them in books and movies, but I never really experienced them before you.”

Foster breathes a sigh of relief. “Good, because if it was something else, I would look really stupid.”

“Why?” I ask, arching a brow.

He strums the strings, a gentle melody playing through them. “It’s not much, and it’s not very good ... So, don’t laugh, okay?”

I nearly squeal, sliding a little closer to him. “Go!” I encourage, clapping my hands.

Foster rocks his head to the beat, and I admire the way he looks. Nervous, and beautifully broken as the moonlight glitters against his tan skin. His jawline tightens when his lips open to sing.

His voice is deep and rich like expensive chocolate. Soft like silk as his words wrap around and hug every inch of my body.

The song is so sweet, and he laughs while he sings the cheesy parts. I can tell he’s never done this, and that makes it so much more special.

I hang onto every word of his song, but one lyric in particular catches my attention, ‘She’s drawn to the broken. A reflection of herself. She hides her scars behind designer clothes, refusing anyone’s help. While I hide mine behind ink and grease, surrounded by walls I’ve built. One look at her, and I was done.’

He pauses for a moment.

‘I knew I had to release the butterfly from her cage.’ Foster murmurs.

When he stops, I can’t help the tears that stream like a waterfall down my cheeks.

He throws his head back, groaning, “No, no, no. I don’t know how to deal with you crying.” Foster jokes, poking me in the side. He’s excruciatingly beautiful right now. So vulnerable as he peers at me from under his thick lashes.

I put my hands to my face. “That was the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he appreciates the compliment by the dimples in his cheeks. “I know it’s cheesy, and I’m still working on the last part. I wrote it for your birthday.”

“No! It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect,” I chime.

He places the guitar on the sand. I can’t take the stupid grin off my face, and it’s beginning to hurt.

Foster grabs the white box and places it on my lap. “I threw it in the floorboard of my car when you wouldn’t talk to me at the dorm earlier.” he admits.

My fingers trail along the cardboard. I love the scrunched-up box and the smooshed, pink cupcake that sits inside of it.

Foster grabs the long, glittery candle that’s rolling around inside the box and places it in the icing. He takes the cupcake out and sets the box to the side, pulling a lighter from the pocket of his jeans.

The tiny flame flickers, a little golden light dancing between us as he holds it between our faces.

“Happy Birthday, Freckles.” Foster tells me, and I close my eyes. I wish that time would slow down so I could stay in this moment. I wish that my entire life didn’t turn upside down like it did. But knowing that how it was, was never the right way to live.

Finally, I wish for him to know how special he is ... and to stop doing dumb things.

I pucker my lips outward and blow the candle out. The small warmth disappears, replaced by the scorching heat of Foster’s body against mine and his soft lips pressing against me.

His hands are everywhere and on every inch of me as he eases or bodies onto the sand that’s still warm from being scorched by the sun all day.

My chest rises steadily as I attempt to control my breathing.

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