make me ache.
He stopped the knife mid-chop. He stared at the carrot. “Nick had expressed some interest in you. He wanted to ask you out. Elliott didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes either.” The knife sliced all the way through, splitting the piece in two.
“And you? What did you think?” I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. I couldn’t read him. He had gotten into the prepping, concentrating on each stroke of the knife. But I remembered our time out in the snow.
I had said Nick’s name, and just as I had done earlier, when he used those two words, tell me, something inside of him silently compelled me to explain.
Nick had been just a friend. Mostly just my brother’s friend. Not getting the chocolate from the pantry had caused me more heartache than the fact that he had been feeling up my sister, even after his supposed crush on me.
“At the time, I remembered you as a little girl. It wasn’t until the night out in the snow that something changed.”
“What was it?”
His movements slowed, the knife not as loud when it separated the pieces. “Me. You. Something in-between.”
“The stars,” I said, not meaning to.
As usual, he took his time answering. “Yeah. The stars,” he finally agreed. “You can feel me.”
Even though I could feel him, there were still times he took me by surprise, times when he casually said words that threw me for a loop.
“I can,” I said, my voice almost hesitant.
“Tell me—”
“I’d tell you anything.” Again, the words seemed to slip free without conscious thought.
He set the knife down—I heard the soft touch of metal against the counter—and then the heat from his eyes seemed to flow over me. For some reason, I found it hard to look at him.
He cleared his throat. “You feel me. But question me.”
The flour and shortening mixture started to resemble coarse meal, so I added an egg, cold water, vinegar, and salt, stirring it together. I floured the surface of the counter, poured out the mixture, and then rolled it out with an old wooden pin.
“Yes,” I sighed. “It’s not science, this peculiar nature, or whatever you want to call it. Well, I don’t think so. My grandmother, my father’s mother, I mean, was the one who had the stories. She never mentioned if the same…connection had happened to her.” I turned the dough, attempting to create a prettier shape with the pin. “I’m learning, Brando. But if I had to compare, I would compare it to falling in love. Just on a different level, perhaps. I’ve never been in love before you.” I huffed out a breath, blowing at the small tendrils of hair tickling my skin.
His hand came up and gently moved the pieces from my face. His fingers lingered, his eyes too, and this time I couldn’t tear my gaze from his.
“I’m still learning you, Brando. I can feel you, yes, like I’ve never felt another person before. Even myself. But it’s the small nuisances. Learning what you like and don’t. What makes you feel passion. What makes you feel rage. What drives your fears and settles your heart. That sort of thing.”
His hand passed over the pulse in my neck, the beat of it thumping like a doe in the presence of a lethal cat about to plunge his fangs into my lifeline. “What makes me tick,” he said.
“Yes,” I whispered. “You can say that.” Turning from him, I rolled the pin over the dough once more, concentrating hard. “Do you—” I bit my lip, shook my head. “Do you feel me?”
“Different. Though somehow the same.”
“The night we spent in the abandoned house, when you let me borrow your memories. You didn’t tell me.”
His hand encircled my arm, stopping me from moving. “I chose not to.”
I looked down at my black boots, covered in flour. I used my toe to create a line in the white powder that covered the floor. He tucked a finger under my chin, but instead of pressuring me to raise my face, he just kept it there. I lifted my eyes, but they felt heavy, drawn downward.
His eyes were serious. “You don’t hate me.”
“You thought I would?”
“Yeah.” The word trembled out. “I lived. Your brother died.”
“I’ve never—” I could hardly take a breath. The word refused to leave my mouth. That fifteen-year-old girl with snowflakes in her hair, heart on her sleeve, hopes and dreams wide open, still loved him. I loved him. I would always