Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)

“Are you alright?”

Kit is looking at me weird as I put some of my finished homework into my locker. For some reason each leaf of paper feels like it weighs eighty tonnes today and I cannot for the life of me carry the excess for one second longer.

“I’m fine,” I say in an embarrassingly weak voice. My stomach actually convulses when the words leave my mouth. I rest my head against the locker above mine, not even caring about all of the germs that will now be embedded into my forehead.

What is wrong with me today?

“You look all pale and sweaty.” She manages to say it in a friendly way.

“I feel a bit-” I take off my blazer and flap my arms about, trying to get the cool air to heal me osmosis-style. “I feel like I might be about to pass out.”

“Hmm,” she muses as we start walking to class. “Maybe it’s your blood sugar. Do you want a Starburst?”

She rummages in her bag.

“Actually, I’ve only got the green ones left, and that might send you over.”

I sigh. She is not wrong.

When we get to class I take my seat like a zombie. I don’t even know which class we are in, so I just start pulling everything out of my bag in a heavy-lidded daze. Kit gives me her water bottle before she goes to her seat at the other side of the room and I absorb the liquid like a sponge. Then my stomach starts to hurt even more.

By the end of class I have coloured in all four corners of my notepad, gradating them from dark inky black, to dove grey, and then to the white of the page. I have also managed to not pass out, which feels like a very significant achievement right now.

Kit helps me stuff my things in my bag and then we are out of the room, standing next to a set of doors that lead to the courtyard. The air, fresh with recent rainfall, feels so good that I want to go outside and curl up like an animal on the concrete. Right after I’ve ripped out my intestines.

“We have one more hour – are you sure you don’t want to go home? You can keep the water bottle by the way.”

My heart is thumping in my ears, making her sound like she’s underwater. “I’ll get you a new one,” I say, guilt-ridden because of my grossness.

“Please don’t. All I ask is that you don’t die because you’re the only friend that I have.”

That pierces the veil. I look over at her and she’s shuffling on her feet, half wanting to make sure that I’m okay and half scared about not making it to class on time.

I have to be there for her.

“One more hour,” I gurgle out, and we turn back down the corridor.

*

I face-plant my bed as soon as I get home. My glasses are now entrenched in my skull. I shuck off my skirt, tights and sweater vest, and I try to become one with the quilt. Am I dying? If I am at least I won’t have to do that French listening test next week.

When my mom gets home she immediately stomps up to my room.

“Amazon delivery,” she sing-songs dryly. “Thanks for keeping the front door unlocked. I’m here to murder a small teenage girl.”

I groan and roll over, looking up at her stern face.

I expect her to start a lecture but her eyes drop down to the bed and she makes a small knowing sniff.

“Oh,” she says.

I look down too.

Oh.

“River, why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, her tone disappointed.

There is a small circle of blood on my bed. I sit up and look down at my underwear, and there is a small circle of blood there too.

My mom stopped getting periods when she hit an early menopause a few years ago so I don’t really have any second-hand experiences to go on. I’ve never had a period before.

I’m so amazed by the sight that I stop feeling the pains for a minute.

“It must have just happened,” I say, my tone awe-struck. RIP my underwear.

“Right, I’m going to go out and get you some pads and Ibuprofen. Stay right here.”

Honestly, where does she think that I will go? My own body is stabbing me from the inside and I have sweat running down my forehead. I hear her close the front door and I roll back on my stomach, into my little blood patch.

Then there’s another knock at the door.

Ugh. Why is she trying to torture me? Is this her way of forcing me out of bed so that I have to lock the door from the inside? Why can’t she lock the door from the outside?

By the time that I reach the bottom step I feel like hell again. Too much jiggling. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and Kit was right. I am all pale and sweaty.

I open the door and my stomach drops.

Tate Coleson is an imposing presence when he’s standing in your doorway. He’s not even sixteen yet and he’s already six foot tall. His face is in the shadow of the porch roof, making his skin an even deeper tan, and when he meets my eyes he looks hard and angry.

Then his face changes completely.

“River, what’s wrong?”

All of a sudden I can’t stand anymore. I want to put my head between my knees but that would look weird in front of Tate, so I opt for lying down on the tiles instead.

“I’m fine,” I lie. From down here on the tiles the lie sounds believable. I think that I might be passing out. When I peek up at Tate he doesn’t look convinced.

“River, please can I come in?” His whole body is straining in the doorway. He looks so desperate that I want to say no and then continue watching him put up this agonising fight with the invisible barrier, but instead I sigh and acquiesce.

“You can take the player, Tate. It’s in my room.” Just leave me here to die.

He’s at my side in an instant, one hand cupping my head so that it isn’t touching the tiles and the other entwining our fingers.

“What is it? What happened? I saw your mom leave. Tell me, River.”

Suddenly I have this horrible recollection of what I am wearing. Luckily due to my short height the white shirt that I have on technically looks oversized, but still, if he looks any further-

“Tate, please don’t look down,” I say urgently.

Obviously Tate’s eyes immediately flicker downwards and he sees exactly why I am melting like a puddle on my mom’s tiles.

His eyes are back on mine in a second, his expression bashful and guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to.”

He moves the hand that was in mine up to my cheek and I groan in an agonising way. He flashes a wary glance to the front door and then back down to me. He does this a few times. Then he scoops me into his arms bridal style, knocks the front door closed with his shoulder, and starts carrying me up the stairs.

“I might bleed on your arm,” I whisper.

He breathes out a small laugh but mainly he looks like he’s hurting.

He’s hurting because I am hurting.

At the top of the stairs he asks, “Which room is yours?” as if we haven’t been staring into each other’s windows for our entire teenage lives.

Both of our bodies are a bit tense now. I vaguely lollop my arm in the direction of my room and he carries me into it, fingers gripping into my thighs tighter than before. He cautiously settles me on my bed like a priceless one-of-a-kind artefact.

I roll onto my side as he crouches down next to me, and I wince as my stomach cramps.

“What can I do?” He’s stroking my cheek with impossible gentleness. “Is there any way to relieve it?”

Is this what men are like? Surely not. Maybe I am dead.

Then he asks, “Can I touch your stomach, River?”

My eyes flash to his and my head spins a little. It is highly unlikely that having a man spread his palm over my stomach is going to relieve the pain inside of me.

And yet.

“Yes,” I say quickly.

“Thank you,” he replies, and he gets to his feet, towering over me.

I roll onto my back and look up at him.

Slowly he pulls up his sleeve and he splays his hand a few inches above my stomach. The air between my tummy and his palm is pulsing aggressively with anticipation. His fingers are so long and his knuckles are so big that I have to grip my sheet to prevent myself from wriggling. I must be emitting all sorts of violently explicit pheromones because his jaw is clenched and throbbing.

He eases his fingers out across the white cotton of my shirt and then he gradually begins to press the large expanse of his warm palm against my lower stomach. The heat from his skin sinks in through the fabric and I can instantly feel it submerging into my body. I arch my back up higher so that he can touch as much as possible and his hand presses even firmer into me. I push my head back into my pillow and the soft surface plumps up indulgently around my cheeks.

When I hear the hard sounds of ragged breathing I flutter my eyes open. Tate instantly looks away from me, a deep blush spreading across his cheekbones. I look down at my stomach and I can see the tension rippling through the thick tendons of his forearm. The possibility that I am responsible for his flushed demeanour makes me feel sparkly all over.

“It feels okay now, Tate.”

My voice is all husky. It’s foreign to both of us and it startles him. He pulls his hand back like my body just burnt him and he holds it behind his head, giving me a satisfying display of taut abdomen.

“My mom will be home in a few minutes. Do you want to take the player?” I nod over to the corner of my room where my CD player is longingly looking out of the window over at Tate’s porch.

Tate lets out a long breath and shakes his head. He sits down next to my feet and the bed squeaks in delight. “I only want to listen if I’m with you,” he says quietly, hands gripping his knees. Then he looks up my body until his eyes finally meet mine. “Only with you.”

A warm feeling spreads inside of me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come over today, I was dying,” I say apologetically. I tuck my knees up so that I can hide my underwear.

He shakes his head, and a finger brushes up my calf. “I was being greedy, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “You don’t have to come to see me every day anymore – it’s not fair to you. I’m going to start planning things. I want to spoil you.” Then he looks up at me with a playful smile. “Are you going to let me spoil you, River?”

I laugh delightedly under his attention but then a car drives past the window and it snaps us out of the moment.

It wasn’t my mom but it could have been.

He pulls the discarded cover from the side of my bed and tucks it snug around my body.

“I can’t believe that I’m in your bedroom,” he whispers tenderly.

“Don’t look at anything,” I whisper back. My eyes flick nervously to the stack of romance books by the door.

He smiles. “I haven’t. But I want an in-depth tour the next time that I’m here.”

Next time.

He crouches beside me again and murmurs, “I want to look inside every single one of these drawers”, as he runs his fingers down their ridges. I shiver like he’s running his fingers over me.

He grins.

Tate pushes himself up and carefully eases my glasses from my face. He sets them on the dresser the right way up, which makes my OCD shudder with delight, and then he leans over, covering me in the warm smell of his golden skin. He presses a firm kiss to the top of my cheekbone as he whispers me goodbye.

My cheek tingles even after he slips out of the house. I fall asleep with the feeling of his warm palm pressing heat and pleasure deep into my womb.