not have anger issues.
“No, you don’t,” I tell him. “You don’t get drunk. You’re not even drinking right now and you’re in an establishment called a bar.”
“If I get a drink, will you leave me alone?”
“And you absolutely do not have anger issues either,” I say, ignoring him.
At my vehement answer, a surprising thing happens.
His lips twitch and I swear to God, my witchy heart jumps in my chest for making them.
“Well, then you should’ve been there,” he says in an amused voice.
His amusement is making my heart pound faster. “Been where?”
“When my coach signed me up for anger management therapy.”
“Your coach signed you up for anger management therapy?”
I know. I know I’m repeating most of his stuff. But honestly, I can’t keep up.
Because it’s the most bizarre thing I’ve heard in my entire life.
Arrow and anger management.
Arrow, punching a door. Arrow, kissing a strange girl at the bar.
What the fuck is happening?
“Yeah.” He nods, his amusement still in place. “Your glowing endorsement could’ve saved me.”
“Why did he sign you up for anger management therapy?” I ask, as if this question is the holy grail of all questions.
“Because I punched a door,” he deadpans. “Aren’t you paying attention?”
Before I can say anything to that, he leans toward me.
He not only leans but he sniffs me too.
I draw back a little. “What are you doing?”
Keeping himself hung over me, he rumbles, “Smelling you.”
“Why?”
“To see if you’re too drunk to have this conversation.”
I open and close my mouth for a few seconds. “I’m not drunk. I don’t drink.”
Well, not a lot.
I mean, I have had a few drinks here and there, mostly with people back in my old high school.
“Is that right?”
I raise my chin. “Yes.”
“Surprising. Given the fact that you don’t care about rules.” Then, “What about getting high?”
“W-What about it?”
“Do you like it?” He looks me up and down. “I’m sure a girl like you must enjoy something like that once in a while.”
I swallow at the look in his eyes, at the fact that he’s still looming over me. “No, okay? I don’t do drugs either.”
“So if you don’t do drugs, as you said, and you don’t drink, why the hell did you come here?”
To distract myself from dangerous thoughts. Of you…
“I came here to dance,” I snap.
He sweeps his eyes all over me, taking in my messy, curly hair, my painted lips, my sweater and my cargo pants, before standing up straight. “Well then, by all means, don’t let me keep you.”
Finally, I shake my head.
Enough.
Enough.
I frown at him and another surprising thing happens. A shocking thing.
He smirks at me. At me.
After eight years.
After eight fucking years, I finally get what I’ve been wishing for. His smirk.
And my stupid fucking heart can’t handle it. My stupid fucking heart swells and swells in my chest until it’s aching, and I know it’s a rather drastic reaction to a simple smirk, and people might call me crazy.
But they don’t know.
They’ve never been in my position. They don’t know what it feels like when a guy you’ve loved for eight years, who loves someone else, smirks at you, and his eyes shine because of it.
You lose your breath. You lose your sense. You lose all your goddamn goodness and almost tell him that you want him.
But somehow, I pull myself back.
Somehow, I dig my nails into my palms and remember that he’s Sarah’s boyfriend and I’m here for her.
And he’s lying.
He’s trying to distract me. That’s what it is, isn’t it?
He’s playing with me and he’s enjoying it.
So weird.
So glorious.
“You’re trying to distract me,” I accuse.
“It’s not my fault that you’re so easily distracted.”
“And you’re lying to me, aren’t you?” I squint my eyes at him, trying to control my heart. “You’re making this whole thing up. You didn’t punch a door.”
“Yeah? What did I punch then?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a door.” I stab a finger at him. “You’re trying to distract me from the real question.”
“And what’s the real question?” he asks in a whispered, almost mocking voice.
“Where’s my sister?” I snap out.
His eyes bore into mine then. And maybe it’s the trick of dismal light or whatever, but his features glow, as if drawing attention to themselves.
Attention to how sharp and harsh they look.
How tight.
“Told you. She’s probably back in LA.”
“But that’s impossible. You’re injured and…” My eyes go wide and something makes me ask him, “You are injured, right?”
I look down at his feet.
He has a washed-out pair of blue jeans on. I stare