Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [75]
Brendan kept his face composed, but his green eyes narrowed when I told him about Henry’s liberal use of corporal punishment, how the tension at home was thick like a fog, how it filled your lungs until you thought you would suffocate. Finally, I told him about the accident—how Henry showed up at school wasted. How I didn’t even think about him being too drunk to drive when I got into the passenger seat of his tiny Honda—I was just trying to get away from the scene he was causing on the front lawn at my school. How I just wanted to start over and be anonymous in New York.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Destiny or not, I wondered if my sordid home situation with Henry was a deal breaker. It had been for so many back home.
Then Brendan finally spoke. “And after surviving all that, you want to be doomed by me?”
“If I didn’t see you again, that would feel like I was doomed.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Emma. I’m not all that great,” Brendan said disdainfully.
“You’ve been the brightest spot in my life this past year,” I confessed. “Do you want to take that away from me?”
“I don’t want to take anything away from you. But that’s what this—” he picked up my charm, then dropped it “—means. Don’t you get it?”
My heart felt raw, exposed. It was irrational to hurt this much, I knew, after two dates. But I couldn’t help it—all my old wounds ripped open. Everyone you care about leaves you, Emma.
“So I guess you want me to leave now?” I stayed in my spot on the leather sofa, not moving, hoping he would tell me to stay.
“I don’t want you to leave, Emma.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled-up wad of paper—the item he had pulled off his corkboard.
“I saved this,” Brendan confessed, gently shoving the paper in my hands. I stared in amazement at my own handwriting—the note I had left thanking him for the sweatshirt.
“Why?”
“It was a connection to you,” Brendan explained plainly. “I can’t imagine those feelings are going to go away the more time we spend together.”
“It’s the same for me,” I admitted. “But, if you want me to leave…” I took the chance and pushed myself off the couch.
“I don’t think I can let you leave, Emma,” Brendan said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into his lap, holding me close to his chest. “The way I feel about you…I didn’t know it was possible.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
“Aren’t you afraid, though, of what could happen?”
“Not enough to leave,” I whispered, toying with the zipper on his sweatshirt.
“That shouldn’t make me as happy as it does.” Brendan sighed, tightening his grip around me.
I stayed curled up in his arms for some time, letting the weight of what we believed to be true sink in. Finally, Brendan spoke.
“By the way, Emma, thank you for telling me the truth. I know that was hard for you,” he said, intertwining his fingers with mine. “Honestly, it’s nowhere near as bad as I was imagining. But I understand why you didn’t tell anyone. Makes sense why you’re the only person I know not on Facebook. Smart move.”
He paused. “Then again, you’re a smart girl, even if you’re flunking Latin.”
“Don’t remind me.” I laughed—a welcome release from the weighty mood in the room.
“You’re no good to me if you get kicked out of school,” Brendan said, that playful, flip tone creeping back into his voice. “So, first tutoring lesson begins now. You’re a puella pulcherrima.”
“Puella’s a girl, so…what, a failing girl?” I asked, and he laughed.
“No, I’d have to think about how to say that. What I said was you are a very beautiful girl.” I think I might have blushed. Being called “beautiful” would take some getting used to.