Page 11 of Incipient

“Yeah.”

I glared at him. “Why?”

“You offered.” He laughed and then pressed his back against the wall.

“I was making a joke. Quit playing around,” I scolded and then scrubbed my palm against my legs, as though trying to wipe away the remnants of his electrifying touch.

His eyes dropped to my hand. “That’s not going to make it go away,” he said smugly.

“I know that.” I stopped rubbing and studied him. “You did that on purpose.”

His dimples pressed in as he tried to bury his smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, sure you don’t.” I rolled my eyes at him and then marched forward to my bedroom door, ignoring the humming sensation rioting through my body or how hot and delicious he looked leaning against the wall.

Ugh!I really needed to get my hormones in check.

I couldn’t afford any more distractions, and definitely not from Trace. I had enough on my plate, thank you very much. Flicking on my bedroom light, I barreled across the room and headed straight for my dresser.

I wasn’t sure how long I was packing for, but I wanted to make sure I had enough clothes to last me at least a week to avoid making any unnecessary trips back here. Obviously, I was going to need to come up of an alternative place to stay at some point, or like, buy a new house altogether, but until that happened, I needed to be fully equipped.

“Nice room,” said Trace from somewhere behind me. “Have I ever been here before?”

My back straightened as a bout of panic ripped through my insides. What the hell was I supposed to answer to that? If I lied to him about being here before and then he suddenly remembered it on his own, he’d realize that I had lied to him and would wonder why that was. The last thing I needed was for him to get suspicious of me.

I turned to face him with a pile of clothes cradled between my arms and chest. “Yeah, you’ve been here before,” I admitted, deciding to go with the lesser of two evils. “For like homework and stuff.”

He nodded, though mostly to himself as he continued to walk around my room and examine everything. “It feels…familiar.”

My heart ached for him just then. For us. For what had been stolen away from us.

Not wanting for him to see the emotion rampaging through me, I turned on my heel and rushed inside the walk-in closet. Grabbing my spare school uniforms hanging in the closet and then my duffle bag off the floor, I quickly stuffed every item of clothing I was holding into the bag while simultaneously also stuffing my emotions back into the pit of my stomach. The whole thing was very therapeutic.

“When was this taken?” I heard Trace ask from across the room.

I picked up my duffle bag by the handle and straightened before walking out of the closet. He was standing by the night table beside my bed, holding a picture of us in his hand, and I all but fell over.

It was a picture that Taylor had taken last year.

A picture of me and Trace.

His arm around my shoulder.

My hand on his chest.

The rush of emotions was more than I could stand. I dropped the duffle bag and leaned back against the wall, trying to gather my bearings and not pass out from the sudden rush of way too much shit coming at me at once.

Trace’s head turned at the commotion and then he was rushing over to me, his eyebrows knitted together in concern, the picture now a forgotten relic of the life we once had.

“I’m fine,” I said, holding my hand out to stop him from getting any closer.

“You don’t look fine.” His jaw muscle ticked under his skin like a drumbeat.

“Thanks,” I said and made a face at him. “I’m just a little dizzy. Probably because I haven’t eaten all day.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as regret poured over his features like rain. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I laughed, because none of this was his fault. Not a single thing in our messed-up lives was his fault.

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