“Why do you keep running from me?”
I could feel a blush rise to my cheeks, and I hoped it wasn’t enough to notice. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
He tilted his head to the side, and his eyes narrowed. “You run every chance you get. What is it about me that scares you?”
“Nothing,” I said too quickly, mortified that he would think otherwise. “I’m not scared of you. I’m— It’s complicated.”
He dropped his hands flat on the tabletop. His skin was mottled like he’d been burned. My eyes traced the scars to his wrists, where they disappeared under the sleeves of his shirt, and I wondered how far they went.
“A lot of things are complicated, but this?” His hand gestured between us, and as it fell, his fingers brushed mine. “This shouldn’t be.”
My entire body tensed and shivered. The place where the edge of our fingers touched was ablaze with heat, and my insides melted as his hand slowly worked to cover mine. His skin was hot, and it seared mine all the way down to the bone. I wanted to pull away, to free myself from whatever this was, but I couldn’t.
The edges of my vision blurred and blackened. My surroundings shifted, and I was no longer sitting across from him at the Center. I was in the back of a darkened alleyway—huddled in fear.
I shook myself until my vision cleared. “What’re you doing to me?” I asked as I pulled my hand from under his.
He stood from his seat, pulled out the chair next to mine, and sat so close our knees knocked together.
“Nothing. I’m not doing anything. But you feel it, too?”
No. No. This was an illness, not a shared feeling. This was me turning into her. I shook my head and denied his words, but James wasn’t so easily discouraged.
“I know you do. Tell me you do.” His hand reached toward my face and hovered an inch off my skin. For one agonizing moment, I thought he was going to pull away, but instead, he cupped his hand around my cheek, and I closed my eyes. Being near James was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It was more than attraction. It was magnetic and impossible to ignore. His touch was as thrilling as it was terrifying, and my instincts rocketed between pulling away and leaning in.
His hand opened wide and splayed against my jaw before he curved his fingers around the back of my neck. I pressed my legs together, overwhelmed with the sensation of him, and knotted my fists in my lap.
“Don’t be afraid of this—or of me,” he whispered. His breath was warm, and I shivered as it brushed my neck.
From somewhere through the haze of my jumbled thoughts, I heard gunfire, distant but calling, and my breath caught in my throat. I shook my head, and as difficult as it was, I detangled myself from his embrace.
He sighed and scrubbed his hands against the scruff on his cheeks before letting them fall to his lap.
“This isn’t about you.” I picked at a loose string hanging from my sleeve.
“Then what is it? Because when I’m around you—” His words fell away in frustrated silence, and all I could hear was that gunshot ringing in the night.
“Don’t make this into something it’s not. I don’t even know you.”
Even though I’d said them with as much kindness as I could, the words hurt to say. How could a disease control my thoughts—my desires? No wonder my mother didn’t want to live like this. I’d only experienced it a couple of days, and I was already adrift. Lost. Pulled in too many directions to be whole. Sickness swelled in my stomach, and anger boiled in my heart. I stood too fast, and the backs of my knees shoved my chair away.
“I have to go,” I said.
“You’re running.” I heard him call after me, but I was too upset to care that he was right.
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About Amy Murray:
Amy Murray graduated from the University of Houston with a B.S. in Psychology. She is a CrossFit addict, proud Harry Potter enthusiast, and obsessed with modern quilting. She and her family live in Cypress, Texas.
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