Page 112 of Kill for a Kiss

He breathes raggedly. I can’t speak when I’m crying this much, hurting this much with him.

“I don’t regret loving you,” he says. “But I regret that you’ll never be mine to love the way he gets to.”

He laughs, weak and bitter. It doesn’t sound like him. It doesn’t sound right.

“Guess that makes me the idiot who tattooed a love letter to a girl who was never mine.”

I reach out again, cupping his face with determination this time, despite my hands trembling so badly that I can’t control them anymore. “You’re not an idiot,” I say with all of my heart.

He leans into my palms, eyes fluttering closed. “I just needed to say it out loud to you, Elle. So I could stop pretending.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

“I would never want to hurt you.”

“Youdidn’t.” A small, sad smile stretches across his lips. “I’ll be okay, babe.”

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” I whisper.

He huffs softly, trying to laugh through the mess of it. “Don’t tell Sterling I cried. I’ll deny the whole damn thing.”

That makes me laugh a little, even through the tears.

He leans forward, resting his forehead on mine. “I just needed you to know,” he whispers. “That I love you enough to let you go.”

My throat tightens. “Stan…”

“I know.” His smile falters. “It’s not goodbye, I promise. How can I ever stay away from you for too long, Elle? I just needed to air all of that out here. Needed you to know what’s going on in my noggin’.”

His lips land on my cheek, kissing my tears. I can’thelp but smile, feeling warmed by him, even as the passing breeze cools us.

He leans back and wipes his face with the back of his hand, muttering, “Fucking moss in the air.”

I stay seated beside him, our shoulders touching. Our hands find each other in the near-dark, like they did when we were trapped in the haze. But we’re no longer there. We got out of it. And even if it drags us back, we’ll keep getting out. We’ll be okay.

***

The stars are out by the time we’ve stopped crying. The sky stretches wide above us, a blanket of constellations scattered like twinkling ash. Everything feels quiet and calm.

We’re still sitting at the edge of the ravine. Stan hasn’t looked at me in a while. He’s watching the stars, eyes glassy, reflecting the light like they’ve swallowed the sky whole. But I watch him. His profile is sharper under the moonlight, all shadows and bruises, the line of his jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“I used to daydream,” he says. “That we’d get away from it all. You and me. Someplace no one knew us. Somewhere quiet.”

I don’t speak. I let him go on.

“But that’s the thing about dreaming, right?” He glances over, his smile sad again. “You wake up to reality eventually.”

My chest aches all over again from the devastating truth of his words. He stares back up at the sky, hands clasped between his knees, holding himself tightly.

“You know what I’d do, if I was smarter?” he asks, voice frayed.

“What’s that?”

“I’d get up right now, say a dumb line like ‘see you around,’ and walk away before I make things worse.”

“You’re not making anything worse.”