Page 145 of The Fall
But the lights, those same captured stars I remember from my dream, crisscross above me. I close my eyes and breathe. My skin remembers warmth from a memory that isn’t real. I know exactly where I stood when he traced my ring finger and?—
The memories shatter.
I drop into the nearest chaise and dig the heel of my palm against my ribs.Itcouldn’thave happened, but it feelssoreal.
A breeze stirs the palms, and the water whispers against the dock. Inside, Lily’s high-pitched giggle cuts through the deeper rumble of the men watching TV. Blair is at the kitchen island, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. Hawks says something that makes Blair laugh, his head thrown back, the line of his throat exposed.
It may never have happened, but the heartbreak I feel is real, and so is this craving.
I finally force myself to look away, facing the dark expanse of the canal. A barely contained static buzzes through me. Behind me, the sliding door whispers open.
I don’t turn around. His footsteps, the way my body responds before my mind—it’s him.
“Found you,” Blair says. “I thought you’d left.”
“No,” I say. “I needed some air.”
“Mind if I join you?”
I should say yes. I should tell him I need space, that everything in my head is a mess. Instead, I shift over on the chaise and make room. He sits and passes me another Gatorade.
So thoughtful. “Thanks,” I say.
“No problem.” His hands rest on his thighs, fingers spread wide.
I remember those hands in my dream.
We listen to the water lap and the football game and our teammates back inside. Clouds drift across the moon, casting shadows across the pool.
“Are you sober?” I ask suddenly.
“Not technically.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t struggle with alcohol, but I stopped drinking at the start of the season.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s said. “You... what?”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
I drop my gaze to the Gatorade bottle in my hands, turning it slowly between my fingers. The plastic crinkles under my grip. “It is,” I whisper. “I’m sorry?—”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
But I do need to apologize for something. For this confusion, for not knowing what’s real, for wanting things I’m not sure I should want.
He exhales. “I’m the one who needs to apologize.”
“For what?” What could he possibly have to apologize for?
He doesn’t answer right away. He looks out at the canal, his jaw working for a moment. The muscles there are tight, defined in the dim light spilling from the house. A heavy quiet settles around us, full of unspoken things.
When he finally turns his head, his gaze finds mine again. “I was wrong about you,” he says. “From the beginning. And everyone followed my lead. They were wrong, too, but only because I was first.”
“You weren’t wrong about me.”
“I was. I didn’t give you the chance to prove yourself. I wrote you off before you even stepped on the ice.” Blair’s eyes hold mine. “I decided who you were, and I was wrong.”
