Page 36 of Icing Hearts

Henry sputters blood as his legs struggle for leverage to buck Tory off. But all I hear is Tory’s sinister laugh.

He pulls back, this time with his left arm, and I dart forward. As soon as my hands wrap around his wrist, Tory’s fisted fingers relax.

“Get off him, Tory,” I demand, grabbing the collar of his flannel and yanking hard until he rises to his feet.

For a moment, Tory just stands there, glaring at Henry while I tug and tug. He doesn’t even sway, and it’s clear that when he finally does move, it’s only because he wants to.

I grab a box of tissues from a nearby end table and yank Tory’s elbow toward the front door. He chirps over his shoulder at Henry as we tear through the captive audience and right out the front door. The salted steps crunch under our shoes, and Tory shakes me off before leaning against the brick exterior of his house.

“Why did you do that?” I shout, rushing forward with the box of tissues. “You went too far.”

Tory swiftly smacks the box out of my hand. “What is your problem?” I toss my arms out to the side.

“You,” he says. “You’re the problem, you’re the solution. You’re everything.” It’s clear he wants to yell back

“Screw you,”

“If you had all this heat, Charity, why didn’t you use it on Henry Mavis?”

I cross my arms over my chest. Everything is frigid. The air, his eyes. He leans back against the brick exterior of his house. Both of our heaving chests begin to relax as silence stretches between us.

Tory pulls a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. The bubble of the last month bursts in time with the spark of the fire igniting.

He blows a plume of smoke up into the air through pursed lip. “No, you don’t want anyone to see that side of you, do you? That’s your whole thing, isn’t it? Dance with boys you don’t want touching you. Make your little jokes. Repeat your anecdotes. Keep things surface-level.” He points at me with the two fingers holding that stupid cancer stick, glowing in the night. “You’re shallow, Charity.”

Anger wells within me, swirling deep in my stomach, radiating out into my limbs. He doesn’t mean it.

I turn to storm back into the house. But Tory’s free hand darts out, grabs my back pocket and spins me toward him. It’s all I can do to stop from bracing myself on his chest.

“Don’t run. Tell me how you feel. Give me something, Clara. Something real.” His eyes dart back and forth between mine.

I open my mouth to speak but realize there are no words that desire to seek form. None of them fit—square pegs in round holds. So I snap my teeth shut and glare.

Tory takes a single step closer. “For the record, he had it coming.”

Another step forward. I step back. He smirks, and it teases my nerves in a most unpleasant manner. Annoyance itches at the tips of my fingers.

“Well, I didn’t need you,” I lie, jutting out my chin defiantly.

“Oh yeah?” He gives me a look. That look. The look that says he doesn’t believe me, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. That I did need him. I always do.

But It’s smug and I hate it a little. Smoke swirls from his smirking lips in a slow dance through the frigid night air.

This is all just a game to him. Or maybe it isn’t, but he’s still toying with me.

“You want real?” I ask him.

“If you’re even capable of such.” Tory lets out a sardonic laugh.

Blood heats my neck, spreading into my cheeks. Such audacity.

My hand flies up, a soft smack sounding in the night when I make contact. My eyes go wide in surprise at my boldness. It was symbolic. Not enough force to knock over a blade of grass.

But he smirks. “Good start.”

Something unreadable is etched across his face as he traps my wrist with a grip that’s just a bit too firm. My pulse throbs against his fingertips. We stand there. My chest heaves but his breaths are even, steady, unbothered.

Tory’s lips part ever so slightly. As he brings my hand closer to his face, I extend my fingertips. He shivers just before I graze the sharp point of his Cupid’s bow. The wintry night doesn’t touch me.

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