I squeeze her tight. “I know. It fucking sucks I have to drop you off.”
“Everything’s going to be okay, Mars. I swear it.”
We kiss a little while longer and then, all too soon, we’re driving back to Ashton Hills. She stays glued to my side the entire ride. My heart aches in my fucking chest, but I need to let her go smooth things out with her mother. She’ll have to lie her little face off.
“Drop me off at the school. I’ll walk home from there so she doesn’t see your truck,” she instructs, pointing at the college.
I pull into the parking lot where the library is and shut off the truck. She hugs my middle and sniffles. My chest physically hurts at the thought of her getting out of the vehicle and walking away. I run my fingers through her hair and toy with the strands before kissing the top of her head. A million thoughts run through my head like a stampede of buffalo. It’s chaotic but powerful. Despite the thundering, there is a plan. There is a goal. One we’re going to seek out together.
It kills me to have to leave her here.
It’s the best way, though.
We don’t want her mother sniffing us out and shutting us down before we’ve had a chance at our happiness.
Right now, we’re that stampede of buffalo. Running and running and running toward the edge. There is no turning back. There is no changing course. We’re doing this. Together. At a breakneck speed. It’s insanity and it’s so fucking beautiful.
And when we finally reach that edge…
We’re not going to fall and hit rock bottom.
No, we’re going to fly.
We’re so going to fucking fly.
Like dragonflies.
Because we are like dragonflies, and that’s what they do.
They fly, goddammit.
Sage
When I climb out of The Beast, I give Mars a sad wave and blink away the tears stinging my eyes. I hate leaving him. My chest aches and my head is pounding.
I start walking toward home.
Home is a fucking joke though.
Mom makes it feel like a prison. Like I’m a fair maiden trapped in a stone tower. Dad is my only refuge in that place and since I haven’t been able to talk to him about Mars, being home is like being in hell.
Mars is my home.
At least when I’m with him I can breathe. I can laugh and smile. I can be myself without worrying about the fact I don’t wake up looking flawless, or I’m awkward in social settings. Mars takes me the way I am. He loves me the way I am.
I round the corner and begin the walk along the private road leading to my house. I’m relieved when I don’t see Mom or Dad’s car out front. I have time to get inside and sort out my thoughts.
I use my key and walk inside. The alarm has been set so I disarm it before the damn thing lets everyone in Ashton Hills know I’m creeping into the house. After the door is shut behind me, I hurry up to my room and lock the door behind myself. Yup, I definitely feel like an inmate with all the doors and locks.
I hate it.
I pull off my hoodie and toss it to the bed. When I glance at where my easel is in the corner, my paintbrushes call to me. It’s a call I can’t ignore.
My fingers tingle at the thought of painting. Mars has inspired me in ways I didn’t know were possible. I sit on my stool and begin throwing colors on my palette. Deep blacks and angry reds. I don’t even want to sketch out the image in my mind because it’s too vivid and it begs to be let out immediately.
This isn’t a flowery experience.
It’s violent and intense.
I paint a chaotic world. It’s a sphere of unhappiness, anger, and confusion. It’s a place that turns my stomach to think about. It’s full of red, black, and orange.
I lose myself in the creation of my world.
In the background, I hear a faint sound but the sound doesn’t grow clear until it turns into relentless pounding. I blink my eyes and realize someone is knocking on my door. Then I hear her voice. It makes me cringe instantaneously.
“Sage Emerson! Open this door right now!” It’s a shrill and frantic voice that has me rolling my eyes, as I swish my paintbrush around in a glass of murky black water. I’m not looking forward to opening the door, so I take my time remembering where I left off on my painting and where I want to go once I can get back to it.
When I’ve committed my direction to memory, I sulk over to the door and pull it open but only enough to poke my head through. Mom’s eyes explode with anger when she realizes I’m not budging.