Page 70 of Off Limits: The Firsts

My feet move. Toward him.

My heart, hard as it may be, jolts into my throat.

And I really wish I had my damn Nikes on instead of my cowboy boots.

“Easton!”

His shadow’s up ahead, the streetlights hitting his hair a beacon for me to follow.

“Easton!” I call as I chase after him.

“Forget it, Scout. Just forget it.”

“No, wait.”

“At some point, it’s not worth the trouble anymore.”

Tears burn and my vision blurs as I catch up to him, just as he hits the lobby of his building. Conscious of the other people, I don’t yell like I want to for him to stop. Instead, I move a bit faster. He steps into the elevator and turns to face me with shoulders square, body tense, and eyes that say everything he doesn’t speak.

Step in now or turn around and keep walking. Now or never.

My pulse pounds, knowing the answer but fearing it at the same time.

I step in.

Easton blows out an audible breath as he pushes a button, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign, but it doesn’t matter because my heart urged me to step in when every sensible thought screamed for me to stay out.

The elevator jerks and then surprises me when it begins to descend. I glance over at him, but he’s just staring straight ahead—jaw clenched, hands fisted, face intense.

So damn handsome.

I want him.

In more ways than let’s have fun ‘til it ends.

Because I want to take a chance on this. On him.

Sure, we’ve known each other for a couple of months, but when I look at him now, when I think about him when I’m alone, when I anticipate seeing him, it makes me want to push all fear out the window. It makes me want to step into him rather than step away. It makes me realize it’s okay to want more, when before, I’ve never even allowed myself that chance at all.

And I get it now. What he said the other night about making your own happily ever after. His implication that it’s not easy. That sometimes it takes time and patience and shutting up instead of shouting louder. That it might be the hardest thing in the world, but it can also be the most rewarding.

We just fought in the parking lot. He walked away, and I chased, for the first time ever. That should tell me something . . . but it’s bigger than that. There is the notion that, even though he was livid, even though he told me he wasn’t doing this, he still stood in the elevator with his finger on the open-door button and gave me a choice to be with him. The idea that he was mad at me, but still wanted me. That he walked away, but that didn’t mean he was leaving me.

This all hits me in the few seconds we have during the elevator ride down—it’s suffocating and invigorating.

When the doors open to the private field, I follow as he steps into the lighted entry, the rest of the space still in the muted dark. The elevator dings, the doors close behind us, the silence returns.

“Easton.” It’s a plea. A question. A “talk to me.”

“Don’t ‘Easton’ me,” he says as he turns to face me, eyes alive but posture guarded.

So we stand and stare but don’t speak. My heart is in my throat. My emotions a train wreck inside of me.

I expect him to tell me to leave.

I expect him to shake his head and say no more.

Wouldn’t that be fitting, considering I now want more?