“I’m afraid you’re making a mistake.” “We’re not a mistake,” she insists. Her nails dig into me, carving little crescents into my arms. “We were written in the stars. Stars don’t make mistakes.” My eyes close tight, my body swaying as if it’s being pulled in two different directions. Dancing and distance are what’s best for June. No, I’m what’s best for June. Fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know, so I just kiss her, because nothing is scary or messy or wrong when I’m kissing her.
