into the background when he touches me. His heart pounds fast against my breasts as he holds me close and kisses my neck.
“Cassie…”
The way he says my name is like a groan of frustration and a sigh of relief. A promise. An apology. A prayer.
He rubs his thumbs over my cheeks as he leans down and pauses for long seconds before finally kissing me on the mouth. He presses his lips to mine but doesn’t move. I inhale as my pulse doubles, pounding blood filling tense muscles. Making me want so much more than I’m ready for.
He pulls back and leans his forehead on mine, eyes closed. “One more chance is all I need to prove how different we can be, Cassie. Please. I know second chances are hard to come by and here I am asking for a third, but … fuck, I need you. And despite everything, you need me, too. Just say yes. Please.”
I clench my jaw against habitual panic. “After my outburst, are you sure you still want this mess of insecurity dressed up like a woman?”
He lifts my chin and searches my eyes. “Cassie, I can safely say I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you. Even if you tell me no, that’s not going to change.”
I sigh. Trust him to say exactly the right thing to melt me. “Well, okay then, I guess we’ll give this thing one more try.”
His answering smile is so dazzling, it’s blinding.
“But,” I say, “I’m not going to lie and say it will be easy. I’ll need some time, so we need to go slow, okay?”
He exhales. “Okay. No problem.”
Then he kisses me in a way that’s in a different universe to slow.
I pull back, breathless. “Ethan…”
“Slow. Yeah, I know. Right after I do this.” He takes my face and kisses me, unashamedly desperate.
In a blur of mouths and desperate I-need-you noises, he walks me backward, guiding me through the doorway I was blocking a little while ago. Then the door is closing, and my back is against it, and his body is warm and hard as he presses into me.
“Ethan…”
I can’t catch my breath. He’s everywhere, pressing and tasting. Reclaiming what’s always been his.
“God, Cassie … Thank you for this. For you. Thank you.”
He stops kissing and wraps around me, and I bury myself in him, my face in his neck.
We just stand there for a while. Breathing each other in.
Being.
Still not fixed, but far less broken.
TEN
THIS TOO SHALL PASS
Six Years Earlier
Somewhere Over Middle America
For my whole life I’ve heard people throw around the term “heartache,” but I never truly understood what it meant until now. I mean, how is it possible that an emotion, something that has no mass or form except what we give it, is able to wrap around our hearts like a python and squeeze until every valve and chamber aches? Until the blood itself, which has no feeling at all, pulls barbed wire through our arteries with every broken beat? It shouldn’t be possible.
And yet, as I look out the window of the plane taking me home for Christmas, that’s exactly how I feel.
Everything’s wrong. I’m alone, and all the parts of me that shouldn’t hurt, do. The parts that thought love could conquer anything feel stupid. The parts that were firing with pleasure less than twenty-four hours ago feel tainted and cold.
I’m so angry, I want to rage and smash things, but the pain … the illogical heartache … keeps me curled in my window seat, fighting tears and trying to ignore the sick rolling in my stomach.
I hate what he did. I hate the reasons he did it.
The word resonates hot in my chest.
Hate .
Such a strong emotion. So easy to call upon. Loud enough to shout down all the pain.
It’s easy to hate him, so I do.
It distracts me from how much I love him.
When we land, I exit the plane in a fog of cultivated numbness.
“Sweetheart.” Mom hugs me before pulling back to give me her usual once-over. “That’s what you wore to travel? They’ll never upgrade you if you wear jeans, honey.”
I sigh and turn to Dad.
“Cassie…”
The way he says my name is like a groan of frustration and a sigh of relief. A promise. An apology. A prayer.
He rubs his thumbs over my cheeks as he leans down and pauses for long seconds before finally kissing me on the mouth. He presses his lips to mine but doesn’t move. I inhale as my pulse doubles, pounding blood filling tense muscles. Making me want so much more than I’m ready for.
He pulls back and leans his forehead on mine, eyes closed. “One more chance is all I need to prove how different we can be, Cassie. Please. I know second chances are hard to come by and here I am asking for a third, but … fuck, I need you. And despite everything, you need me, too. Just say yes. Please.”
I clench my jaw against habitual panic. “After my outburst, are you sure you still want this mess of insecurity dressed up like a woman?”
He lifts my chin and searches my eyes. “Cassie, I can safely say I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you. Even if you tell me no, that’s not going to change.”
I sigh. Trust him to say exactly the right thing to melt me. “Well, okay then, I guess we’ll give this thing one more try.”
His answering smile is so dazzling, it’s blinding.
“But,” I say, “I’m not going to lie and say it will be easy. I’ll need some time, so we need to go slow, okay?”
He exhales. “Okay. No problem.”
Then he kisses me in a way that’s in a different universe to slow.
I pull back, breathless. “Ethan…”
“Slow. Yeah, I know. Right after I do this.” He takes my face and kisses me, unashamedly desperate.
In a blur of mouths and desperate I-need-you noises, he walks me backward, guiding me through the doorway I was blocking a little while ago. Then the door is closing, and my back is against it, and his body is warm and hard as he presses into me.
“Ethan…”
I can’t catch my breath. He’s everywhere, pressing and tasting. Reclaiming what’s always been his.
“God, Cassie … Thank you for this. For you. Thank you.”
He stops kissing and wraps around me, and I bury myself in him, my face in his neck.
We just stand there for a while. Breathing each other in.
Being.
Still not fixed, but far less broken.
TEN
THIS TOO SHALL PASS
Six Years Earlier
Somewhere Over Middle America
For my whole life I’ve heard people throw around the term “heartache,” but I never truly understood what it meant until now. I mean, how is it possible that an emotion, something that has no mass or form except what we give it, is able to wrap around our hearts like a python and squeeze until every valve and chamber aches? Until the blood itself, which has no feeling at all, pulls barbed wire through our arteries with every broken beat? It shouldn’t be possible.
And yet, as I look out the window of the plane taking me home for Christmas, that’s exactly how I feel.
Everything’s wrong. I’m alone, and all the parts of me that shouldn’t hurt, do. The parts that thought love could conquer anything feel stupid. The parts that were firing with pleasure less than twenty-four hours ago feel tainted and cold.
I’m so angry, I want to rage and smash things, but the pain … the illogical heartache … keeps me curled in my window seat, fighting tears and trying to ignore the sick rolling in my stomach.
I hate what he did. I hate the reasons he did it.
The word resonates hot in my chest.
Hate .
Such a strong emotion. So easy to call upon. Loud enough to shout down all the pain.
It’s easy to hate him, so I do.
It distracts me from how much I love him.
When we land, I exit the plane in a fog of cultivated numbness.
“Sweetheart.” Mom hugs me before pulling back to give me her usual once-over. “That’s what you wore to travel? They’ll never upgrade you if you wear jeans, honey.”
I sigh and turn to Dad.
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