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Author's notes for part two: This part of the story is sponsored by the word milking.
Other info in Part One
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Touch
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She couldn't bear the weight of his eyes upon her any longer. It made her conscious of every move she made, causing her to sit ramrod straight in her chair, arms crossed in front of her chest. She felt like his gaze was devouring her, and it sent shivers throughout her body. It was wrong. It was right. She had to get out of there.
Grabbing her backpack off the back of her chair, she headed for the door without bothering to put it on. And then she stopped. She was supposed to meet Oz after his set. What would he think when she wasn't there? She groaned inwardly at the thought if hurting him…again. Walking to the bar, she left a note with the bartender for her boyfriend, saying she had gone home to study and would talk to him later. Studying he could understand. The truth, he could not.
Five minutes later, she was leaning against the side of the building, head in her hands. Breath, she told herself. She felt better already, knowing she had the walk home ahead of her. Alone. Time to clear her head and figure out exactly what she wanted. With his gaze upon her, the choice was simple. He was what she wanted. The fire she felt when he touched her, sometimes she craved it. But now, it didn't seem like such a wise choice. And everyone expected her to be wise.
Hauling her backpack upon her shoulders, she buttoned her pale blue cardigan and started for home. It would be at least twelve hours before she had to face him again. Surely that would be enough time to sort things out.
*-*-*-*-
The battle within him started when she got up to leave.
Every nerve in his body told him to go after her. He played the scene is his mind: He would touch her, grab her arm, and she would resist, just a bit. But she wouldn't struggle. Sparks would flare in her eyes as she looked at him, and they would melt him. He would tell her that he just wanted to touch her, make her understand what they had been missing. And she would agree, she would crumble into his arms and that would be it. Problem solved. Because once he touched her she would know.
But his brain called interference and he found himself glued to the spot. He knew from the confused look of the boy onstage that her retrieval was not planned. Was it possible she had seen him after all? If that was true, she had left to get away from him. He had scared her away.
"Uuugh," he said aloud, brining his fist down hard on the table. What had he done? He took the thing he cherished most, and he made her fear him. He felt like a stalker, especially considering the thoughts he was having about her. He groaned. Now he didn't have a choice. He had to go after her and make her understand.
He slid out of his hiding spot, and took the longest route to the door in an attempt to avoid running in to anyone he knew. Just as he was about to exit, he chanced a look at the stage. And met the gaze of one very unhappy boy. It stopped him cold, but he returned the gaze solidly, refusing to back down. So what if he was leaving? He had a right to leave. For that matter, he had a right to find her. With one last glance over his shoulder, he stepped out into the night.
She couldn't have gotten far. It had only been moments since she left, and she was smart enough to take the longer, well-lit streets home. That at least took the guesswork out of where she was heading, but his head was buzzing with all he wanted to say to her. When he found her, what was going to happen?
Stepping up his pace he rounded a corner and saw her several blocks ahead, just a small figure beneath the street lamps. The confidence he had admired before was gone. She clung to the straps of her bag and stared at the sidewalk beneath her, her shoulders slouched inward. He should have been walking beside her instead of behind, at a distance. She fit so perfectly beneath his arm, so perfectly that he could smell her shampoo and feel her hair tickle his nose. If he were beside her, he could pull her against him and talk about what it was like before. That is, if she would let him, which probably wasn't such a good possibility right now.
His long strides were eating up the distance between them, but something made him hold back. He didn't want to scare her any more. If she thought someone, or something, was sneaking up on her in the darkness…he couldn't bare to put her through that.
So perhaps it was best to wait. He would follow her home and wait for her to get settled in, then he would approach her. That was probably best.
*-*-*-*-*
They met when they were very young. Too young, even, for girls and boys to have learned why they were made for each other. But they knew, even as children, that they were supposed to be together. They had known it from the very first, when their parents encouraged them to find other children of their own genders to play with. And they made promises.
When he first saw her, he told his mother that he had met a girl whose hair was on fire. He meant, of course, that she had red hair, but he begged until he saw her again to be with her. "Please, Mommy," he would plead. "She told me secrets. She's says it won't burn me if I touch it, but I don't believe her."
She had never met someone who didn't complement her on her hair. Her parents' friends always cooed over how beautiful it was, all long and shiny and red. But he was scared of it. He swore it would hurt him if he touched it, and sometimes she wondered if he was right. Even though she knew she was the smart one.
And so they made their first promise: She would let him hold her hand if he touched her hair and it scolded him. After his hand was healed, of course. Soon they were holding hands everywhere they went. They were four years old.
Many more promises followed. He would stand up for her when people picked on her for being smart, or shy. She would help him with his homework, in secret, so his parents wouldn't punish him. They vowed to be best friends forever, no matter who said what about their relationship. They would dance with each other at the junior high dance if no one else asked. They would try to take all the same classes in high school, except when she had to take advanced ones. There were promises about prom and college and birthdays and even promises about marriage.
But there were never promises about love. Because even though they loved each other without a doubt, they had promised each other very young that they would never speak of it. "It'll jinx it," he told her. And she believed him.
So when, one by one, each of them stated breaking promises, they had forgotten the biggest reason they had to fight.
Part Two