My shoulders lifted, but I stayed quiet. I reached out for my drink, but my hand trembled. I watched as it attempted to pick up the glass.
"Logan." His voice was strained. "I thought it was getting better."
I didn't speak, just concentrated on my dry mouth and the need for some form of liquid. I gripped the glass, but my hand hadn't improved. A small amount of soda tipped over the lip and onto the table. I cursed under my breath.
I felt her hand first; it brushed against my forearm, then her fingers second, as they slowly linked with mine.
I turned to face her but she was looking at our hands, her lips turned down into a frown.
In my head, I counted the seconds it took before the shaking stopped. It wouldn't take long. It never did when she was comforting me.
One.
Two.
Then her head raised and our eyes locked. "Taco Casserole is pretty amazing," she declared. Her smile was genuine. It wasn't pity. It wasn't forced.
I unlinked our fingers to take the drink. No spillage this time. I thought she'd move her hand away once I'd separated them, but she left it there, palm up, waiting. I didn't hesitate for a second.
She tried to continue eating with her left hand, but it was clearly a struggle. I laughed quietly as I watched her. She glared at me, but a smile played on her lips. She huffed out, as if annoyed, then placed my hand on her leg and released it.
I could feel the warmth of her skin through the material of her dress. I think I moaned; I'm not sure, but she giggled quietly. Then Dad cleared his throat. I'd forgotten he was here.
He stood up, dramatically. "I'm tired," he announced. "I'm going to bed. You should show Amanda your old room and those posters of 50 Cent."
Then he was gone.
"50 cent?" She laughed.
I didn't even care. I just wanted to hear her laugh.
15
Amanda
"Why are you blushing?" I asked him.
He laughed. "I'm about to show you my room from when I was fifteen."
"Do you have pictures of naked ladies?" I teased.
"Honestly?" He put his hand on the handle and pushed down. "Most likely."
He swung the door open and I stepped in. "Well," I told him. "This is a total anti-climax. It's just an average teenage boy’s room."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
I walked around, looking for something I could make fun of, but there was nothing. Apart from the posters of rappers that were cool more than ten years ago, there wasn't much at all. Surely he had a porn stash. What fifteen-year-old boy didn't?
I walked to his bed and checked under it. Nothing.
"What are you doing?" He followed and looked under it himself.
I went to his nightstand and opened the drawer. Nothing.
"Hmm." I tapped my lip with my index finger. "If I was Logan Matthew’s porn collection, where would I hide?"
His laughter filled the room.
I stepped towards his walk-in closet.
"Where are you going?" He blocked me, with a panicked look on his face. One step closer and we'd be chest to chest.
I shrugged. "I told you, searching for your porn collection."
He let me pass. I turned the light on in the small room and looked around. He chewed his lip, his hands going in his pockets.
And then I saw it: a box on the top shelf. I smirked at him. He shook his head. A blush crept to his cheeks.
"Busted," I told him.
I got on my toes and tried to reach for it.
I sensed him before I felt him. The warmth of his hard chest against my back made me tense. "It's not what you think it is." His voice was hoarse.
"Yeah?" I asked, hoping my nerves didn't show. When any part of us connected, it was more than just physical. Or even emotional. It was a collision of comfort and unease. Gut-wrenching and heartwarming. He did this to me. We did this to each other. "So, what is it then?"
I heard his shaky breath against my ear. Then his hand settled on my hip as he pressed into me. I let out a moan. It had been a year since I’d felt a guy like this. This close. This hard. He reached up with his spare hand and pulled down the box. Then, with the hand still on my hip, he guided me to turn around. He didn't step back and away from me; in fact, he moved closer, and closer, until my body was up against the wall under the shelf. He pulled back slightly, his arm raised, gripping the bar above my head. There were no hangers on it, no clothes; the small space was empty, apart from a few boxes on the floor against the walls. The sleeve of his shirt bunched together, allowing me to see his tattoo again.
"Amanda," he whispered, then opened the box between us. Inside were dozens of pendant glass vials, like the one he’d given me that day in the rain. The day he’d promised me that we would make new memories, ones that I wasn't afraid of. He said that we'd be amazing. We really could have been.
My hand reached in for one. Each vile was in a ziplock bag with a date and location handwritten. "Every time it rained, I thought of you." He sniffed one. My eyes lifted to his. "I wanted to send you these, but I just—I don't know . . ."
"There's so many in here."
He nodded. "There are four more boxes."
"Why?"
"For the same reason you came here every other week. It made me feel closer to you. It made me miss you less."
"Why didn't you just come home then?"
He placed the box back on the shelf, and pressed his body against me. "Because I'm a coward. And an asshole. And I don't deserve to have you in my life, let alone here, in my room."