Page 39 of Twisted Promise

At least, not at the right time.

Then he was, a year later, on a frigid night.

Fondness, a feeling of less than love, but close enough to keep her in denial. She wasn’t ready, not at eighteen or nineteen, which was normal. A two-year relationship was nothing in comparison to forever and eternity.

Turning twenty was like a drop of rain in the ocean. Nothing special happened. And she thought nothing of it until her life was missed by mere feet from streetlight steel.

Life was just as fleeting as love.

Time trudged forward, with avoidance being a pleasant lull. They were stronger than yesterday, and the space between their hearts closed a little more. It was comforting, like lying on freshly changed bedding at night with his arms around her.

Her parents had an inconclusive ending. She recognized the blame-shifting in each text they sent her, asking if she wanted them together for the holidays, if Alessio was treating her well, and if she was okay.

She never recovered from the loss, just burying it along with their deaths in the back of her mind. For her own good, she would tell herself.

There was a pattern of hurt that followed love, something akin to memories grasping at dream fragments.

So, when Alessio’s confession nestled in her heart, she knew things were going to change. For the worst, and she was prepared.

Anya didn’t love him.

One of many lies she held dear; they were adhesive tape on her skin from wounded memories.

She couldn’t love him, and a wall of reinforced denial helped with however many years it would take to forget him.

* * *

“You’re scared we’ll fall in love, then die.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

He listened to her, his shoulder pressing against hers as he shared heat from his coat, and the smell of him teased her fluttering heart.

He didn’t call her stupid for feeling those things, and he didn’t let go of her hand that he laced their fingers together a while ago, nor did he convince her to find peace with her parents’ death.

“That’s the gist of it,” he said.

It was hard to get a read on him.

“It’s not,” she countered, stubbornly refusing to admit how close it felt to the truth.

“Then talk to me.” He tightened his fingers, bringing their palms tightly together, and she returned it shakily. “I’m your boyfriend.”

“We broke up,” she reminded, the weight of her own resistance nagging at her.

“We didn’t,” he denied promptly at the last second of the sun disappearing behind the horizon.

“You agreed.”

His chest rumbled as his throat released a mix of sneering and purring. “I don’t remember.”

She hummed understandingly. Pretending to ponder over his reaction, she heard him sigh deeply and lean his weight on her to feel him, to shove his existence deep into reality and remind her that he wasn’t a hallucination in her daydream.

“Why did you agree?”

It had bothered her, yet it shouldn’t. It wasn’t fair to put the burden on him. She broke up with him, and regardless of her mind’s turmoil, blaming him was never realistic.

“I respect you,” he said softly, a gentle whisper between the pages of their lives. “Your decision is important to me.”

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