I close my eyes and let my head fall back.
I want to be with her right now. I need to hold her, to touch her. I need to feel her eyes on me, to trace the skin down her neck, to close my hands around her waist, to dip down my head over hers and taste—No.
My eyes fly open. I can’t go down that rabbit hole. She is home, where she should be, and I am about to board a plane to Belgium. And there is a whole ocean separating us. As there should be.
…
I last all of twenty-four hours days before I text her again. (I was asleep for most of them).
I’m texting Eden, I think, almost giddy.I’m texting Eden.
I haven’t felt that surge of adrenaline and happiness just by holding the phone in my hand since the summer after I met her. She might have gotten scared and have logged off yesterday—honestly, I was terrified too—but she didn’t delete our conversation this time.She never will again.
Isaiah: Checking in. Did you get any sleep?
Eden: I did, you?
Isaiah: More than I deserve. How are your sisters?
Eden: They have some… interesting things to say about you.
Isaiah: Oh no.
Eden: It’s all good. I think.
Eden: How are you? Are you taking care of yourself?
Isaiah: Always.
Eden: Not always. Athens day one, you fainted on stage.
I sit up. My face gets hot from embarrassment. Dammit, she wasn’t supposed to have seen that. Then again, the entire world did.
Isaiah: That’s honestly no big deal for me. I have fainted on stage a lot of times, and no one worries like that about me. Well, except my mom.
Eden: And Jude. And Skye. And a million people around the world.
I scoff.
Isaiah: All they care about is the product. Issy Woo. And he doesn’t even exist.
Eden: You are not a product. You are Isaiah.
Isaiah: Eden?
Eden: Yeah?
Isaiah: Thank you.
Eden: For what?
Isaiah: Because you see me. And no one has, for a long time. Since you, actually.
Eden: Don’t hide, then, Isaiah. Stop hiding.
Isaiah: It’s not that easy.
Eden: I don’t know what’s easy and what isn’t. Everything is hard for me and always has been.