Page 18 of Falling For Alaska

“To what, Alicia?” I ask, chin up.

“You know what. Don’t play dumb.” I’ve had enough. If she’s okay with this, then that’s on her, but I’m not going to stay and let her belittle me.

“I won’t apologize,” I state firmly. “I-I c-c-can’t.”

“If you don’t, we’re over.” I don’t even flinch. She’s not the first to be embarrassed by me and she surely won’t be the last. I get it, I’m used to it.

“I g-guess we are,” I murmur. “Tell your m-mom thank you for the meal,” I say, voice low. I walk out the front door alone. My body trembles as the adrenaline fades, and the familiar weight of failure crashes over me. Why do I always lose everything when I finally speak up?

Chapter Eight

ALASKA

This week couldn’t come any faster.

I’ve been waiting for him to show up at the store for two days, and he finally came today, surprising me as I was sorting new books in the back of the store. I had many customers today, but the sound of his footsteps was different, unique, and recognizable. Bella had tried to make me spill the beans about whether I liked him or not on our movie night, and because it’s Lakeside, where words run faster than the wind, she was already aware of our little encounter. It didn’t matter, though, I couldn’t explain to her the real reason why talking to Jack or even watching him was difficult for me. For six years, I had been pushing men away, even the kind ones. It didn’t matter that they were nice or handsome.

All they wanted was to date Alaska.

Not me, the one that I was before the incident.

The one who died.

They wanted the version of me that hadn’t been altered by the sharpness of the ice, the brutality of the horror, and the unforgiving fact that I had been there, that I had seen it all. What was the point of having a surface-level relationship with someone who could never understand me? Someone who couldn’t even touch me? Yet somehow Jack awoke something in me, something so strong and vulnerable at the same time, I can’t pull away. Each turn I’m making ends with him, and I have the feeling I need to see beyond my fears, just for once.

“Nice,” he declares, his voice low and heavy while I’m still head in my shelves on top of my wood ladder. I turn quickly and bite my lips, trying to ignore the churning of butterflies in my belly. Did he mean the shop or…me?

“Jack,” I say, trying to seem composed and unbothered. “I didn’t know you’d come today.” I blush, keeping my chin up even if my fingers shake a little.

“I wasn’t sure what d-day, uh, you wanted me to come,” zeroing on me, his navy uniform and the stumble on his jaw attracting my gaze like a moth to a flame.

He’s…He looks so….

“Did you f-find what you were looking for?” he asks and I jerk out of my thoughts. God, was I staring?

“I…-”

“The t-t-trail, I mean.” He chuckles lightly, aware of what I was doing.

“Oh, the trail, right, right.” Descending the ladder step by step to not fall, he comes closer, looking like a giant in my tiny pink shop and offers me his hand.

Can I do this? Can I…touch him again without flinching?

Whereas in the forest it wasn’t obvious, but now, in bright daylight, he will see my scars. Why didn’t I think about it sooner? His palm is marked with dry patches, like the one of a carpenter. Wide and strong like the hands of someone who could kill but also protect. I take a deep breath.

You know this is all in your head, right?

This isn’t real.

And people don’t ask each other about scars.

I slip my small hand in his and the touch warms my body like fire. I stop for a second, expecting tears to fall down my face, but it doesn’t happen. I’m touching another human being on purpose, and I’m okay. He squeezes my hand and we stare at each other a second longer. I know this is inappropriate, and it’s not polite to do so, but…his eyes have a particular shade of hazelnut and honey, his short hair is a bit longer in the front, but I’m guessing he’s running his fingers in it so much that it goes up a bit and makes him…so, terribly, handsome. I bite my lips and his brown caramel gaze drops on my mouth, looking at me like something he wished he could taste.

“Here,” he grunts, helping me get down, while I manage a thank you. As if the tension was palpable for him too, he steps back and takes in the store. Studding the shelves, tilting his head on the side, and lowering down when it’s not high enough for him.

“Um, you might not like this section,” I say, coming near him as he takes in the historical romance section.

“Why?”