Page 29 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)
AUSTIN
"YOU HAVE TO," he says it again, and then again, each time just a little bit more desperate. A little bit more raw.
And I let him.
I could answer immediately. I could cut this misery the second it comes up. I could tell him that from here on out, whatever he asks of me the answer will always be yes .
I don't.
Maybe it's a little sadistic. Maybe there's still some residual part of me that remembers being eighteen and desperate and getting nothing in return. Some small, ugly corner of my heart that wants him to feel a fraction of what I felt all those years ago.
So I let him suffer for all of fifteen seconds, watching his face crumple as he waits for my answer, watching hope and terror war in his expression.
After that, the need is gone. Completely evaporated, like it was never there in the first place.
No more urge to punish him. No more desire for cosmic justice. Just love, pure and overwhelming and absolutely certain.
"Why?" I ask and try to hide the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"Never," he whispers, and the word comes out broken.
I step in closer and take his face in my hands, thumbs brushing away tears that have started falling. His skin is warm, slightly flushed, and I can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath my fingers.
"I need to tell you something," I say, and his whole body tenses like he's bracing for impact. "It's good news," I add quickly. "I promise."
He nods and manages a sad smile.
"There's this gallery downtown. It's small and not particularly prestigious, but the owners seem nice. They're interested in exhibiting my work."
Jesse blinks, processing the words like they're in a foreign language. "They... what?"
"A gallery downtown," I repeat. "We've been talking for the past week."
"They confirmed?" The question comes out small, like he's afraid to hope.
"Not yet. We're meeting next week to discuss details." I smile, watching understanding slowly dawn on his face. "But it's real, Jesse."
"What if they don't?" He's still afraid to believe it, still protecting himself from disappointment. "What if they change their minds?"
"Then there are other galleries. Other opportunities." I run my thumb along his cheekbone, feeling the dampness there. "I've spent the last ten years running from this place. From these memories. From you. But I don't have anything to run from anymore."
His breath catches, a sharp little intake that sounds like hope trying not to get too loud.
"You mean..."
"I mean I'm staying. If you'll have me. If you want me to."
The kiss he gives me tastes like salt and relief and every tomorrow we're going to have together.
It's desperate and full of promises neither of us has the words for yet.
When we break apart, we're both crying and laughing and holding onto each other like we're afraid the other might disappear if we let go.
"I love you," he says against my mouth, the words I've been waiting to hear since I was eighteen years old and stupid enough to think love was something you could control.
"I love you too," I reply, and it's the easiest truth I've ever spoken. The most natural thing in the world. "I always have. Even when I hated you, I loved you. Even when I tried to stop, even when I convinced myself I was over it—I never was. I never could be."
He pulls back to look at me, eyes still bright with tears but no longer sad. "Really?"
"Really. You've been it for me since high school, Jesse. Everything else was just... killing time."
We pack up the rest of my equipment together, hands bumping as we work, stealing touches whenever we can. Neither of us can stop smiling, these ridiculous grins that make our faces hurt but feel too good to stop.
The future spreads out before us, uncertain in all the best ways. We don't know what the gallery will say. Or if I'll be able to make a living here. Or how we'll navigate this thing between us, now that it's real, and permanent, and ours.
But for the first time in my life, I'm not running toward something or away from something else.
I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.