Somebody Else's Sky (Something in the Way #2)(38)

"And what about you?" I asked. I wanted to be cool, to not care so much, but it was all I'd thought about since he'd left and the words wouldn't stop coming out. "Things are already ruined. You can't do what you love and you're with her-it's all ruined. Everything."

He lowered his hand. "I chose this knowing what it would mean for me," he said. "I've accepted that. You need to also." 

I shook my head hard as tears formed in my eyes. I didn't like to be told no. Maybe Dad was hard on me, but I normally got just about anything I wanted. Anything I could think to ask for. Manning still belonged to me, even if I was still too young, even if Tiffany was still holding on to him. "You don't understand," I said.

"Yeah, I do. You have to trust me, Birdy."

Hearing his nickname for me again, my façade cracked a little. I closed my lids, my lashes wet on my cheeks. He tried to pretend he didn't care, but he did. He hadn't forgotten. "I can't live like this," I said. "Knowing what I did. That you're mad. That you blame me."

"I don't blame you."

I blinked away the threat of tears. "Then why didn't you answer my letters? Why couldn't I visit you?"

"Lake-"

"You could've called or written to tell me you were okay. I thought about you every day."

"Christ, Lake." He ran a hand through his inky hair, and it stuck up, slowly easing back into place. "Don't tell me that."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want you thinking about what-if or why this, why that. It's just the way it is."

"It doesn't have to be."

"Doesn't it?" he asked.

It was all he needed to say. What were our options? I was still seventeen, and he'd always be seven years older. He lived with my sister. My father hated him and would never let me be with him while I lived at home.

I launched forward, throwing my arms around his middle. He didn't hug me back, but his smoky scent calmed me even more than the new t-shirt smell underneath it. This was exactly where I wanted to be. "I have to know what it was like in there. I can't stop thinking about it. I tried to get in to see you. I borrowed my friend's car and lied about where I was going. I checked out books from the library-"

"Lake, stop. Just stop." His torso expanded with an inhale, and his voice wavered. "Please stop. You don't know what it's like . . . and you're . . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out what sounded like, "fucking killing me."

"I missed you so much." I hugged him more tightly, hoping to wake him up, make him stop pretending this didn't affect him. "I still do."

He put a big hand on my forearm, a touch that put all my hairs on end, and turned it up a little. He ran a fingertip over my small scar. It was dark, but he looked almost longingly at it. "You miss the man I used to be."

"That's not true."

"This is too hard. You gotta understand."

I wanted him to slide his hand up, cup my face, and show me he'd missed me. Instead, he pried my arms from his middle. "Not yet," I begged.

"Lake, it's too dangerous."

I shoved him away, but he was so solid, I was the one who stumbled back. "It's always too dangerous with you. Everything." I curled my toes into the damp grass. "If it were up to you, I'd live in a padded room without access to anything."

"Maybe," he said. I thought I detected a small, almost imperceptible smile, but it was quickly replaced with a scowl. "And I don't want you dressing that way. Earlier."

The cut-off skirt and tiny top both thrilled and embarrassed me. Dad had made me feel like a prostitute, but the heated look in Manning's eyes was the only thing that made sense to me in all of this. He still wanted me, and not just a little. "It seemed like you liked it," I said lightly.



       
         
       
        

He wiped his temple with his sleeve despite the temperate night, then took a step back. "What would make you think that?"

For the first time in a while, I read his body language clearly. The outfit made him uncomfortable. In the house, he couldn't take his eyes off it. A minute ago, it'd made him angry. Now, he was looking toward the house, scratching under his collar. All that because of a short skirt and heels. I shrugged. "I guess it was the face you made."

"I didn't make any face." He backed away a little more but didn't try to leave.

"What didn't you like about it?" I asked. "Was it the skirt? Was it too short?"