Page 47 of The Space Between
He doesn’t look at me. “Doing what.”
“Running. Guarding. Pretending this isn’t happening.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, and releases a laugh with no humor in it. “This isn’t a love story, sunshine.”
“You sure about that?” I immediately reply.
His head turns, finally, his eyes cut to mine. “I can’t give you what you want, Blakelyn.”
“I haven’t asked you for anything, Gruene.” I say quietly.
I haven’t. I haven’t asked you for a goddamn thing.
Because the second I do, you’ll go running scared and shove me away.
“That’s the problem.” He mutters.
We stand there, not touching, not speaking, justfeelingthe weight of everything pressing between us.
The way my chest rises and falls as though I’m standing in hurricane wind too strong to hold me up.
His eyes drop to my bare legs and his jaw tightens. His fists clench at his hips like he wants to rip the space between us to pieces. He doesn’t touch me. Instead, he steps back. It feels like a punch to my gut.
“Last night…” I start, but my voice catches.
He closes his eyes, then opens them and says, “I’m not good for you, Blakelyn. This…” He waves between us, “This cannot happen. There is no happily ever fucking after here. You make me feel alive. You make me want things I can’t want. I never should have touched you.”
I scream, “But you did! Thisishappening, Gruene. It’s too late to throw on the fucking brakes. The damn locomotive is running at full speed, and I never said I wanted a happily ever after.
“I make youfeel? Good! Because you make me feel, too. You make me want, too. I didn’t ask for this shit. But here we are. I should just leave.”
“Then why are you still here?” He rages.
“Because it’s terrifying not to be. Because as terrifying asstayingis,leavingis even more terrifying, you fucking obstinate, enraging asshole!” I yell.
Well, shit.
He doesn’t move.He doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t leave. But something breaks in his expression—some wall that’s been holding for years… since everything happened to him. His eyessoften, his jaw tightens, but his hands… they open. When he says my name, it’s not a curse or a warning or a plea, “Blakelyn…” It’s a confession.
I take a step closer, he doesn’t back up.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “Not without fucking it up.”
“You’re doing a damn fine job at that.” I reply bluntly.
He flinches. Then, he steps back like I burned him.
I leave because if I stay one second longer, I’ll say things I can’t take back. I already said more than I wanted to, and I want him towantme without guilt in his eyes.
At my cabin,the message light on the landline blinks.
I play it. It’s the school. My principal. She says someone called pretending to be my brother. They left a message that there was a “family emergency” and needed to verify I’d be at orientation next week. She said after our talk it raised alarm bells and that the man “sounded… off.” She wanted to notify me and to please call her back and also notify the sheriff.
My stomach twists but I call her back.
She tells me they didn’t give out details. But that I should consider updating my emergency contact list and reinforces that I need to call the sheriff.
I hang up slowly.
