Page 7 of From Square One

“Sorry.”

I wait for an explanation. He doesn’t offer one.

“Bye,” I sputter out, and I slam the window shut, lock it, and throw the curtain over it before promptly heaving a shuddery gasp of relief. I did it. It’s over. Aaron Beckham and I are no more. Now I just need to undo the damage I caused to this house during my period of…rebellion or whatever.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The tension comes rushing back into my body.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He’s thrumming his fingers against my window.

I’ll just ignore him. I have headphones around here somewhere. I pull out my drawers, a muscle twinging in my forehead. No luck, but whatever. I need water anyway. He’ll be gone by the time I get back.

So I fill my water downstairs. I linger in the kitchen, tidying up scattered paperwork on the granite island, including some homework Logan left out for a summer class. The sight is relieving. It means that despite everything, he’s still thinking about his future. Community college isn’t “full ride to prominent university for a sport” levels of excitement, but at least he didn’t give up after what happened a few weeks—or last year. Last year.

I wipe down the countertops with a sponge (just in case—it’s clearly been a while since I cleaned). I return to my bedroom with a full water glass, fatigue blanketing my limbs.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Voluntary manslaughter or first-degree murder? I wonder which I could get away with. I’m plotting his death, but the police don’t have to know. I bet I’d have a good self-defense case, considering Aaron is committing a crime.

I storm to the window and rip the curtains back, glowering through the panes. Aaron is still crouched on that massive branch extending past the window, his handsome face propped in one open palm, his available fingers poking the glass. He waves at me with unbridled enthusiasm.

I unlock the window, yank it up, and snap, “I told you it’s over. Respect that.”

“I’d rather continue bothering you,” he admits, his attention slinking away from my face to observe the rest of me. There’s nothing important to notice—I’m in a tank top and sweatpants, so at least my knobby knees aren’t on display. “I like the face you make when you’re irritated. Your nose crinkles up and your eyes get squinty.” He sighs wistfully. “It makes me want to bully you.”

His words spark another level of anger. He’s never gotten to me this easily before, but this week has been brutal, and I’m at my tolerance limit. “You want to beat me up?” I ask darkly. “Good to know I wasted a year of my life with you.”

Aaron gives me such a skeptical look that it heats the hollows of my cheeks again. “You think that’s what I meant by bully you?”

“What else?” I demand.

“I prefer to use my mouth.”

“Ah.” I roll my eyes, my scowl deepening. “Right. Insults sting deeper. Sure.”

Aaron bursts into laughter with such force that I stagger back in surprise. Immediately, he vaults through my open window and onto my carpeted flooring. “I didn’t mean that either,” he says, his hands rising to combat my incoming shove. It’s too late to stop myself, and the moment my palms touch his shoulders, he scoops them gently into his grasp. His skin is still warm, contrasting with his cool appearance. But then, everyone’s skin is warmer than mine.

“Obviously, I only dated you because you threatened me or something,” I snarl. “Your bullying won’t work anymore.”

“Since you’re not getting the hint, I’ll spell it out.” Aaron pulls me until the tips of my toes are treading over his, and suddenly, his silky-smooth voice is combing the arch of my ear. “When I say I want to bully you, I mean I want to kiss every inch of you until you’re begging for mercy. Make sense, sunshine?”

Goose bumps explode across my body in a disorienting rush of realization. We’ve probably kissed plenty, if we’ve been dating over a year. This bullying threat might be something he’s actually followed through on. “Why are you still here?” I choke out, my thoughts so deep-fried with exhaustion that I can’t offer any insults or warnings.

Aaron considers this. Then with his frost-gray eyes unblinking, he says, “Because I love you, Riley Wilson.”

4

I stare up at Aaron Beckham.

Aaron Beckham stares back at me.

“Wrong,” I say, because nothing else fits here. Nothing could make this make sense. How could Aaron, who only ever referred to me as a “little brat” when I was nearby, love me? We’ve spent the last couple of years glaring at each other over Logan’s shoulder, him with a snide grin and me with annoyance.

Aaron is massaging my fingers, and the increased blood circulation warms my frigid hands. He’s clearly doing it with little thought, like it’s second nature. Like it’s a habit nestled into his subconscious. “I’m not lying,” he says, softer, without the cocky edge that’s been grating on my ears. His eyes are so unwavering that I have to redirect my stare so my thoughts won’t turn into mush. I fixate on the glittery black stud in his ear, then the narcissus flower tattooed behind it, then the curls.