“Whatever I want?” I muse over the foreign concept. “I like the sound of that.”
He smiles at me as I slant forward, sealing my lips to his again, kissing him because it’s what I want.
Luna and I stay out on the porch, kissing for what feels like hours. I don’t take things too far, even though I desperately want to. I can tell she’s tense, and the last thing I want to do is make her feel like I’m pushing her.
“You’re so beautiful,” I hear myself saying over and over again as my hand wanders up her legs, across her smooth skin. My mouth leaves her lips to make a path down her jawline. A shudder vibrates through her body as I sweep her hair over her shoulder and place a soft kiss against the hollow of her neck. “And I don’t think you should cut your hair . . .” I murmur, sucking on her skin as my hand drifts down her arm.
“I don’t want to, but I’m not sure how . . . I’m going to get out of it. She said, if I argued, I had to move out.” She shivers again but winces as my knuckles brush her wrist, and I remember the bruises I saw there earlier.
Even though it kills me, I move back to look her in the eye.
“The bruises on your wrist . . .” I say, out of breath. “Where’d they come from? Because I know they didn’t come from trampoline springs.”
She stares down at the purplish-blue imprints on her skin. “I had an argument with my dad . . . He didn’t mean to, though. It’s not as bad as it seems.”
I hook my finger under her chin and force her to look up at me. “Luna, I know it’d be hard, but have you ever thought about just moving out?”
“I’ve actually thought about it a lot. I mean, I’m eighteen, so technically I could, but I don’t have a job, and my parents won’t let me get one. I think, in this twisted way, they like that I have no money of my own. I am going to be working for Benny for a while, but I’m not getting paid. My parents set it up so it looks like I’m helping, but really it’s another punishment for me.” She shrugs again, dejected. “It’s okay, though. I don’t mind doing it. I just wish I could get a real job, you know.” Sighing, she leaves my lap to go stand near the railing. “I feel like I can’t win either way. Either I break my parents’ rules and go get a job, which will instantly get me kicked out of the house, or I walk out and live on the streets.”
“There’s no one you could stay with for a while?” I get up and move beside her. “Just until you got on your feet.”
She lifts a shoulder, staring at a group of people passing a Frisbee. “Wynter offered for me to move into her pool house, and I kind of want to, but”—she rests her arms on the metal railing—“I’m afraid.”
“Of your mom and dad getting upset?”
“Of them getting upset, of being a burden to Wynter . . . of her finding out stuff about me that I’ve kept from her. I’m kind of coward.”
“You’re not a coward.” My tone comes out sharper than I intended, which causes her to glance up at me. “Not at all.”
“Grey, I keep so many secrets from people because I’m afraid of what they might think of me, and I can barely stick up for myself.” Her voice is heavy with doubt.
I completely disagree with her and feel this overwhelming need to prove it to her.
“Do you know what my father’s last words were to me?” I turn away from her to hide my shame. “He told me that I was a good son and that he was proud of the man I’d become. And you know what I did? I looked him straight in the eye and nodded. I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t the man he thought I was, that I was a horrible person who acted like he was better than everyone else. My dad was dying, and I lied to him. I let him believe I was the nice guy he saw when I was at home . . . That’s a coward, Luna.”
I wait for her to say something.
When she doesn’t, I concentrate on watching the Frisbee get tossed back and forth in an attempt to ignore the uncomfortable silence Luna and I have crashed into.
“Grey.” Her voice sounds firm when she speaks again. “I don’t think that makes you a coward. Your father was dying, and you let him believe he raised you to be a good guy, that he did what he was supposed to do as a father. There’s nothing wrong with that. Besides, you took those words and made something out of it. You changed for your dad, so really, he was right. It just took you a while to make that happen for him.”
I turn to her, feeling ten times lighter than I did a few minutes ago. “I don’t know how you do it, but you always seem to be able to see the good in everything. Except for maybe yourself. I wish you could see that.”
“I do sometimes . . . It’s just hard when, every time I go home, I’m reminded of what a crappy person I am.” She picks at the cracks in the railing. “There is one thing I can’t always see the good in, though.” When she smiles up at me, I’m thrown off by her sudden shift in attitude. “And that’s losing at any game, whether it’s backgammon or checkers. I never, ever think it’s good to lose.”
“I still don’t know if I buy into that theory that you’re a sore loser,” I tease. “I think I have to see it for myself.”
“Beck’s got a whole closet full of board games.” A challenge dances in her eyes. “But I have to warn you about the risks first. When I lose a hand, always keep an eye out for objects I can throw. If you win a hand and you’re smug about it, duck for cover because you’re more than likely going to get pegged in the face with a game piece, card, or maybe even a die. And if at any time you think about cheating, be prepared to get a lecture on how cheating can lead to more severe crimes like robbery.”
“What statistics are those based on?”
“They’re not based on any statistics, per se. I just like to get people really thinking about who they are because it distracts them, and a distracted opponent is a weak one.”
“Wow, you really are vicious.” I pretend to be horrified when really I think she’s freakin’ adorable.
“But at least I’m warning you about my viciousness, right?” she states innocently. I have a feeling the innocent act is a ruse to throw me off my game. “I mean, that’s got to count for something.”
“I guess so,” I say, “but just so you know, none of this scares me. I’m not holding back my mad board-game skills, no matter how ugly things get.”
She grins like that’s exactly what she’s hoping for. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
One hour later, I’m sitting on Beck’s bed with cards surrounding me. After Luna lost her tenth hand of Blackjack, she proceeded to—and very spitefully I might add—declare that I needed to play fifty-two card pick up and then threw all the cards in the air.
Instead of picking the cards up, I relax back on my elbows and stretch out my legs. “You know what? I’m kind of turned on by this sore loser thing.”
A flush creeps across her cheeks, a look I’m starting to really like. “It’s not supposed to turn you on. It’s supposed to get you as irritated as I am.” She flicks a card at me then crosses her arms. “I really suck at Blackjack, don’t I?”
“You kind of do, but that’s okay. At least you throw the cards in the air with great accuracy. I mean, not everyone can get them as scattered all over the place as much you can.” I glance at the cards all over the bed and on the floor. There’s even a few on the dresser that’s across the room. “Think about how long it’s going to take me to pick all these up. Then again, once I do, I kind of win the game, so it defeats your point.”
She struggles not to smile. “Maybe I won’t let you pick them up.” The challenge rises in her eyes again.
A second goes by before I dive for the cards, picking up a handful. She leaps after me and ends up landing on my back. I laugh then easily stand up, carrying her piggy-back style as I bend down to pick up the cards from off the floor.
“Now you’re just showing off,” she says with her arms and legs wrapped around me.
“Maybe a little bit.” I stack the cards in my hand. “Are you impressed?”
“Maybe a little bit,” she admits.