His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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........................................ NOAH
The ballroom is a riot of colour and noise and light, a mix of costumes from the ghastly to the glamorous, all moving to the rhythm of a beat that vibrates through the floor and into the soles of my runners.
Whatever. I'm just waiting.
The DJ, a ghost mask wearing headphones, has a knack for keeping the energy high, blending tracks from Prince to Madonna. Here I am, leaning into the wall off to the side, watching the spectacle unfold. Wallflower, except I'm in grey sweats, a grey crewneck, and a black beanie.
So far, no one knows what this costume is. But she'll know.
Fox is nursing a beer at my side, watching too. His costume, a firefighter without much protection from fucking fire, is a tease meant for one girl considering his fear of actual flames.
I take a moment to scan the crowd for Camila. Again. And again, she's not here. What did she decide to wear? Will she dance with me? The questions are stupid, but they linger.
Sipping on a beer, I lean against a pillar.
Jed nudges me, his face—and entire body—hidden in a Darth Vader get up. "Looking for someone?" His voice is all low and muffled under the mask.
I shake my head, "Just taking it all in."
The memory of Camila in that changing room at Kits Thrifts lingers like a warm ghost on my skin—her laughter, the curve of her smile, the feel of her, soft and warm under my fingers. Fuck, I was holding back in a thousand ways.
She was incandescent, a live wire in my arms, and every inch of her felt like it was made to fit against me. The way she looked in the mirror, caught in hazy vulnerability. Fuck. It knocked me sideways.
I rub the inside of my left elbow absentmindedly, feeling the tender spot where the donor needle went in earlier today. Fox's birthday tradition is a sick one.
Fox likes to end his Birthday Week with a blood donation. Is it noble? Yeah, maybe. Is it unconventional? Yeah, definitely. But it's a tradition about giving, about acknowledging what we have to offer the world beyond just taking from it.
Seven years of dragging me along, and yet every time, I still have to shut my eyes and brace myself for that pinch. The irony isn't lost on me—I can face down most things, but that needle and tube and all the red...no.
I did snag a juice box afterward, though. A small victory overshadowed by the disappointment of missing the complimentary cookie, a no-go because of my fucking allergy. Fox smacked me in the head and said, Look alive. You are. I got the point.
I've been here, politely declining offers to dance with girls I don't know, just waiting for her.
Since Kits, I haven't seen her. She called me last night, a tirade of nerves about the costume she refuses to tell me about, but when I tried to give her advice—maybe chose another costume?—she snapped at me that I was missing the point. I was very confused, but I shut up. Eventually, she said sorry, but I just laughed. She mumbled something about just wanting to feel good.
