Never (Never, #1)

by Jessa Hastings

He smells how the air feels right before the storm. He smells like freedom, and I don’t mean to, but I breathe him in. And once I feel him inside my chest, there’s this peculiar sinking—it’s rather distinct—that the feeling of him being there might not ever quite leave.

It would take me a very long time to learn that there are many different kinds of men in this world (and all the other worlds like ours) but a surefire, quick, and easy way to discern a true man among men is how much of yourself he allows you to be in his presence.

A real man will allow you to be your whole entire self, with breathing room and space to change your mind and even evolve it. A mere boy might let you be yourself just an eighth of the way, if you’re lucky.

He nods his chin at me as he takes my hand, pulling me up off the ground, and when we touch, it feels as though something gets knocked off of a shelf that I’ve kept very neat and very tidy for my whole entire life.

He stares at me for a split second more, then shakes his head. “Just like that name is all,” he tells me, and I do find myself strangely aware of the way the wind blows gently over my face, kissing my cheek as though it’s whispering something to me.

things are never what they seem here. You must remember that.

“You’re not half as bad as he says you are,” I tell him. Jamison’s head tilts, and his brow furrows. “And yer twice as brave and beautiful than he lets ye think y’are.”

The tension in my face melts away like rain does in a puddle, and I feel like I’m staring up at a big tree I’d really like to climb or breathe in or lie under.

He laughs and I like the sound so much. Like you’re sitting by a fire with a drink in your hand that you love, that’s how his laugh feels when it hits you—it warms you up from the inside out.

“Come and take my books anytime ye want them,” he tells me, which although I don’t think he meant to be a sexy thing to say, it was absolutely a sexy thing to say.

And then I feel that stupid kite heart of mine blow all the way over into a tree, rattling around, twisting, and getting tangled on itself.

Thoughts are like helium balloons—someone said that to me once. They drift into your mind, and you can choose to grab the string—hold on to the thought tightly, think of it, dwell on it, mull it over—or you can let it go.

If Peter is gravity, Jamison might be the earth the apple falls to.

The higher I climb and the deeper into the altitude that I get, the better I feel, and I decide I should do this more often. Walks alone, the breeze and me—and a fairy who yells at me for things I’d imagine a mother might too.