Page 33 of Scarred Crown

Nick frowns, and I grab his hand, practically dragging him away. “See you later, Alex.”

“That was weird,” Nick mutters.

“Alex is weird.” My stupid heart is going to beat out of my chest. If Alex is going to make thinly veiled comments for the next few weeks, I might have to start taking anti-anxiety meds or die of a heart attack.

“Did Alex stress you out?” Nick searches my face. “You’re acting strange.”

I look away and shake my head. “Lecture from my mother earlier about you taking the bike out without security.”

“Ah, that old staple.” He sighs.

“She doesn’t want me to go with you anymore.”

“Or what?” He stops walking and tugs on my hand.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and draws me against his side, and we start walking again. He kisses the top of my head, and I bury my face in his chest and squeeze him tight. I’ll never let anything or anyone take him from me.

Julia

When I wake up, the tent is pitch black, and there’s a shuffling noise along the far wall. My heart beats in my ears while something, large or numerous, moves past the tent. Oh God. I hope whatever is out there isn’t large or numerous.

“Nick,” I whisper. “Nick, there’s something outside the tent.”

He stirs beside me, but I can’t make out whether he’s awake or still sleeping.

“Nick, did you hear me?”

“Bush pigs, Jensen. Nothing to worry about,” he mumbles.

“How do you know? Do you have some sort of infrared camera or sixth-bush-pig-sense?” I hiss.

He gives a sleepy chuckle over his shoulder. “Kafil told me they wander the camp at night. Not a problem until the lions decide to hunt them, which has happened, apparently. Though I doubt that’s happening tonight. No high-pitched squealing? No death cries? We’re good.”

“High-pitched squealing and death cries? This is supposed to comfort me?” I keep my voice low even though I want to smack him. Who jokes about lions organizing a slaughter when there’s only a piece of fabric between us and death?

The bed sinks, and Nick must be shifting closer. “You’ve watched too many horror films.” His voice is quiet in the dark.

My chest aches at the tone of his voice, at how the heat coming off him crawls toward me, tempting in its comfort, its familiarity. At one time, I could have bridged the distance between us, and he would have wrapped me up, kissed the top of my head, and then made fun of me. When was the last time I let myself long for him, for what we lost? Years. Any hope I had that my Nick was still somewhere inside this Nick died in college. Maybe my Nick never really existed.

“My horror film viewing period was short-lived.” Once Nick and I blew apart, none of my other friends were into watching people being cut up by chainsaws or eaten by sharks.

“You used to love those films.”

I consider keeping the truth to myself, but the darkness gives me confidence. Why not tell him? “No, I didn’t.”

“We certainly watched a lot of them.”

“Because you loved them.” The rest of it, And I loved you, goes unspoken. Sometimes you realize what someone means to you just before they’re gone, and no amount of wishing brings them back. He’s so close and so far away.

“You never liked them?” His voice is tinged with surprise.

“I didn’t dislike them,” I admit. My enthusiasm for those movies was more for his benefit than mine.

“Well, that’s not much of a standard. Why didn’t you say? I never liked them much myself.” His amusement is clear.

“What?” I gasp. “Why did we watch all those god-awful movies?”