Not Your Typical Love Story

Chapter Fourteen

There's little hesitation and caution in Chase's next movements; no room for doubt in any of it. This was a special magic, a byproduct borne from years worth of impenetrable friendship. Special things like this always withstood the trials of a few measly years. At least they should have. In theory.

In the case of me and Xander, that special bond had been broken.

Chase glances at his phone, blissfully unperturbed. His screen flashes with the time he's checking for, his actions nonchalant; like he's got all the time in the world.

What he didn't know only hurt me.

"Sounds good," he says. The grin he offers Xander is familiar and boyish, a relic of the past still used in the present. He glances at us both transiently, quick to leave. The act of it is unknowingly traitorous, but I have too much pride to reach for him and beg him to stay.

I am not so weak that I would depend upon a human barrier against the boy that shattered my heart and walked away to let me clean up the mess.

"Bianca," Xander says quickly, all too aware of how fragile and fleeting this chance is.

He still knows me well; I can see it in the way his eyes search my face, perusing the signs he'd learned to read ages ago. He reaches for my hand, and I'm too slow to avoid him.

The truth is that I've always been weak when it came to Xander and Chase; they were more to me than most anything was. That's why the loss of them had hurt the most.

I retreat: a step back, a yank of the arm. It's worth nothing; his grip is iron, his skin warm on mine, a reminder of something we haven't been for awhile.

"Let go," I say, but it's weak and we both know it. My voice is cold but there's no venom there. I am glad, at least, that my voice hasn't wavered. If it had, it would become all too clear how weak I am, how much I dread dealing with any of the past—our past.

I glare, but my eyes cast downwards at the place of contact. His hand is a cuff around my wrist; his fingers can probably feel my pulse. He knows that I'm avoiding his eyes. He has to.

I tug, another weak-hearted attempt at escape, and in return, he grips both of my hands with his own. They engulf mine; hard to ignore and hard to pull away. I️ frown, take another step back. But I still won't look up.

Perhaps I am more of a coward than I thought.

"Just hear me out for a few moments, okay?"

It's a very soft request, very easy to fulfill for a boy I once loved. I don't have to see his face to imagine what sort of expression sits on it, though somewhere, in the back of my head, I wonder if it has changed in the years of our separation.

The thought blooms, spreading like weeds in their nature: dangerous to the rest of the inhabits and stubborn to a fault. I hesitate for a moment, still quiet and eyes still downcast, but it's when he squeezes at my hand that my gaze finally flits up.

Xander Sharpe had always been gorgeous. Boys like him only ever get prettier, especially after you haven't seen them for ages at a time.

Xander looks like the kind of guy who was probably a poster child. He's the harmless boy next door that you'd find in trashy chick-flicks, always smiling, always close but far.