Page 58

Willow

H e comes to me later.

In the quiet of the night, in the dark of my room, he walks in, sits beside me in the bed, and brushes his lips against mine.

There’s a strange, unsettling to the silence. A resignation in the space. Neither are relayed with words but rather reinforced by the look in his eyes and intensity of his touch.

“Rocket—”

“Shh,” he says against my lips and then kisses me so I can’t question or protest or wonder.

But I do.

It’s all I’ve thought about since earlier today. It’s the only conclusion I can come to. This is most likely over.

Us.

This weird dream I had where I thought this could be more.

And I’m either a glutton for punishment or desperate to prove him otherwise because I kiss him back.

We undress in silence. The unspoken words are punctuated by actions.

There is no fervor. No wild hunger. No urgency in our touch.

It is slow and devastatingly tender. As if, in this fleeting moment, we are both carving out a before and after. His body over mine, his hands gentle, his mouth moving over my skin like he’s memorizing it for later, when the memory will hurt worse than the loss.

My body feels like it’s the only part of me that could tether him here, so I let it. I let him. I need it as much as he does.

I search his face for a hint of what he’s feeling, so that I don’t feel so alone in this unspoken goodbye—the beginning of the end—and perceive the sorrow in his eyes, the hardened set of his jaw, and the slightest of trembles in his touch.

I hold him as tightly as I can manage, pull him into me as if I might change fate by force, but it’s a losing battle. In every breath he takes, I hear the words he doesn’t say.

We come in the quiet comfort of each other. Tense muscles and linked hands. Soft kisses and yielding sighs.

And when we finish, he lies beside me on the same pillow so our foreheads meet. His eyes search mine and in them I see sadness and regret.

Long after he falls asleep, I study him. Memorize him. Map every detail to memory.

Tonight might not be our last time, but it’s the start of it.

Deep down, I know it.