“You got a phone?” I ask, tucking my hands under my legs.
He nods, glancing up at me. “My mom gave it to me when I got home from the session. She called it a congrats-you-are-no-longer-a-criminal present.” He taps his finger across a small crack in the screen. “It’s actually used, but it works.” He shrugs. “The house finally sold, so she says she can afford to turn the service back on now.”
“That’s good,” I say with uncertainty. “You seem sad about it, though.”
“I’m not sad. I’m just . . .” He sits down in the chair across from mine, setting his phone down on the table beside mine. “I know it’s a good thing, that we can’t afford the house anymore now that my dad’s gone, but it was the house I grew up in, and a lot of my memories with my dad happened in that house. I kind of feel like I’m losing him all over again.”
I reach forward and thread my fingers through his. “I’m sorry that’s how it feels, and I know it’s going to be hard, but I don’t really think you have to lose him all over again. The memories belong to you, not the house, and you can always think about him whenever you feel like you need something to hold on to.”
He studies me like I’m a complex puzzle he’s trying to solve. “You really are an amazing person. You always make me feel better when everything’s so shitty.”
“Grey, you know that’s not true. You heard what I admitted when we were running through the forest that day. I wasn’t lying. I don’t steal because I’m poor. I steal because I’m messed up.” I start to pull away, but he tightens his hold on my hand, trapping it against his knee.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and you don’t have to answer me, but why do you do it?”
My chest tightens. “You really want to know?”
He nods. “But only if you feel comfortable telling me.”
“You’ll hate me when you find out,” I whisper.
He swiftly shakes his head. “I don’t think I could ever hate you, Luna.”
I don’t believe him, but I still feel like I need to tell him the truth, feel like I need to get it off my chest. I need to spill my secret to someone.
“It’s just this thing I started doing . . . to get control, I guess.”
“Control?” He looks lost.
I sigh and tell him about the first time I stole, how I felt this need to gain control over my life somehow and how stealing briefly gave me that. I confess how many times I’ve done it, how badly I felt afterward, and how I wish I knew I could stop, but I’m not so sure I can.
“When’s the last time you’ve done it?” he asks, his voice giving nothing away about how he’s feeling after hearing my confession.
“That time you saw me at Benny’s was technically the last time I ever put anything into my pockets.” I tip my chin down and focus on picking at my nails because it’s simpler than looking him in the eye. “It doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about doing it. The other night, my mom told me I’m going to have to cut my hair, even though I love my hair the way it is . . . and I wanted to climb out my window, run to the store, and stuff as many things as I could into my pockets just so I could breathe again . . . And this morning I was at the gas station . . . I almost put a candy bar into my pocket, but the cashier saw me and said all this stuff to me. It was so embarrassing.”
He stays quiet for what feels like an eternity, and it takes me forever to work up the courage to look at him. I instantly startle back from the intensity in his eyes when I do, unsure what the look means.
“I want to stop,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I do it, I promise myself never again, but then something happens with my mom or dad, and this pressure builds inside my chest, and it feels like I’m going to explode and say stuff that will make the situation worse. So I bottle it down and deal with it the only way I can.”
“Have you ever told anyone how you feel?” His expression remains indecipherable, making me very uneasy.
I shake my head. “You’re the first person I’ve ever talked to about this. Even my friends don’t know that I do it.”
He reaches out and molds his hands around mine, bringing me the smallest amount of comfort. “Can you do me a favor? The next time something happens when you feel that pressure, can you talk to me first before you do anything?”
“You really want me to keep talking to you after what I just told you?”
“You think I’d stop liking you because you steal sometimes?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Luna, I let my friends torture you for years. If anything, you shouldn’t be sitting here, talking to me.”
“You’re not that guy anymore, though,” I say. “You’re nicer, and you care about people more.”
“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do those bad things. Things you forgave me for, even though I don’t deserve forgiveness,” he says. I open my mouth to say he deserves forgiveness, but he cuts me off. “Just let me get this out, okay? Before you say anything.”
When I nod, he continues.
“What I did to you back in sophomore year . . .” He struggles for the right words. “I never should’ve turned you down like that. I acted like an asshole on purpose, showing off for my friends because, back then, I thought their opinions mattered. And when Logan spread those rumors about you, I should’ve stopped him instead of shrugging it off. I should’ve been a better guy, like my dad thought I was, but I wasn’t. I was a self-centered jerk who only saw things from his point of view.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “But I get it now, that not everything is one layered. People have so much shit they’re going through, and a lot of them are struggling just to get through the goddamn day. The last thing they need is for some arrogant prick who thinks he’s better than everyone else to beat them down and make their life even more complicated.” He turns my hand over, palm up, and sketches his fingers along my scars. “You have to deal with so much, and I wish I could’ve seen that.” He looks up at me with shame written all over his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” My voice is thick with emotion. I might have said I was okay throughout the years and didn’t care who said what to me, but the truth is, hearing him apologize makes me realize just how hard it was to deal with all the teasing and ridicule. “And I forgive you.” I already forgave him, but it feels like he needs to hear me say it aloud.
“I’m going to make it up to you somehow,” he whispers, his gaze skimming across my lips.
Yes, please, pretty please, make it up to me by kissing me.
He gives me exactly what I want, leaning forward and pressing his lips to mine. My skin hums from the contact, and I let out this uncontrollable, somewhat embarrassing gasp. He seems to like the noise, though, and groans in response, slipping his tongue into my mouth.
Oh. My. God. This is way better than just using lips.
My lips part as my head angles back, giving his tongue full access to explore my mouth. Every graze of his lips and brush of his tongue drives my body into a mad frenzy. My mom may have told me kissing was a horrible thing and that I shouldn’t do it more than I have to, but God, was she wrong. Really, really, wrong. Kissing is amazing.
His hands glide down my arms and come to rest on my waist. Gripping tightly, he lures me forward, toward him. I’m not sure what he’s doing until he suddenly picks me up and sets me on his lap with one of my knees on each side of him.
My eyes widen in shock, and for the briefest second, I hear that voice in the back of my head telling me what I’m doing is wrong. But I shove the voice aside with surprising ease and fall blindingly into the kiss, letting his hands rove all over my body.
I’m still nervous, though. With each touch of his hands, I worry he can feel all my flaws, and my self-doubt starts to wear on me.
He finally pulls away, sucking on my bottom lip.
“You can tell me to stop whenever you get too uncomfortable,” he says.
“I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never . . . done this before.” My cheeks stupidly warm.
He grazes his knuckles across my cheekbone. “Do you want to stop? We can go dance, get something to drink, whatever you want.”