Page 18 of You Had Me At Valentine

She rolls her eyes but heads for the ancient turntable on the library shelf. I shouldn’t watch her. Shouldn’t notice how her hair falls forward when she bends to set the needle. Shouldn’t remember how soft that hair felt against my fingers.

The first unmistakable notes fill the room, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

“See?” She turns, triumph plastered all over her expression. “You do remember.”

The words die as our gazes lock. The world falls away and it’s only us. The music wraps around us like a tangible thing and you can taste the tension in the air.

I should break the moment. Make a joke about teenagers dancing to moldy songs instead of Paramore or Beyonce.

Instead, I hold out my hand.

She stares at it for a long moment. “Byron—”

“Dance with me.” The words sound like sandpaper in my throat. “For old times’ sake.”

“We’re supposed to be finding music for the party.”

But she takes my hand anyway.

“I think you mean wefounda song for the party,” I tell her as whatever magic Lyra holds inside her pours into my body. “What’s wrong with this one? It’s already pre-vetted and highly danceable.”

I draw her closer, careful to maintain my distance, which is probably closer than I have any right to get, but much further than I’d like to be. We’re not together anymore. I’m not allowed to settle her against me the way I used to. The way I want to more than anything.

But then she rests her head on my shoulder, and something inside me shatters.

“I love this song,” she whispers.

I loveyou, I think but don’t say out loud. Can’t say. Not without explaining everything. Especially the part where I never stopped and never breathed a word about my feelings.

We sway together, and I’m acutely aware of every point of contact between us. Her hand in mine. Her cheek against my shoulder. The whisper of eternity that shimmers between us, filmy and insubstantial, poised to vanish if I reached out to grab it.

The pendant in my pocket burns my skin.

I bought it before everything fell apart. Before her father called me into his office and explained exactly why I needed to end things with his daughter. Before I broke both our hearts trying to do the right thing.

Keeping it all these years probably makes me pathetic. Carrying it now definitely does.

But as Lyra relaxes against me, singing the words softly, I realize I don’t care. I’m tired of pretending. Of being forced to. I pull her closer and she doesn’t protest.

“Lyra.” My voice sounds strange in my own ears.

She lifts her head, and suddenly we’re too close. Her eyes search mine, and for a moment I think about telling her everything. About the Valentine hidden in my messenger bag. About her father’s ultimatum. About how every decision I’ve made since that day has been aimed at proving myself worthy of her without any expectation that she’d ever know if I hit that goal.

Instead, I reach into my pocket.

“I have something for you.”

Her brow furrows as I step back just enough to pull out the small velvet drawstring bag. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

She does, and her soft gasp cuts straight through me. “This is—I pointed this out in the window of Douglas Jewelry that Christmas. Our senior year.”

I can’t look at her. Can’t bear to see the moment she realizes what this means. “You said it reminded you of the stars over the lake.”

“You bought it?” Her voice cracks. “Back then?”

“Yes.” My voice is raw with truth that I hadn’t meant to confess.

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