Never (Never, #1)

by Jessa Hastings

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. Do you ever get a feeling like that? A foreboding? A grave permanence to whatever’s about to come next?

“I don’t like to share,” he says, inspecting his dagger before pocketing it again. “Share what?” I cross my arms again. He frowns at me. “You.” And I wish that didn’t win me over, but it does in the slightest. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never really known the approval of a man before.

The thrill of pleasing him, even if it means losing a thing I loved before.‡

He cocks a smile, and the trigger in my heart cocks also.

and it’s maybe the most brilliant feeling I’ve ever had, having his eyes on me, even if they aren’t entirely on me all the time.

The shirtless boy nods, and I hope my face doesn’t show (though I am quite sure that it does) how hurt I am not only that Peter’s forgotten about me but that it’s obvious to other people as well.

She jumps on his shoulders, wrapping her legs around him, and I have never felt invisible before, but I do. And I hate it. If I had the proper ears for such things, I’d hear it put a crack in the lens, not the one through which I see Peter but the one through which I see myself. Him ignoring me, him all over Calla, doesn’t make me like Peter less—though I wish it did. All it does is bubble up within me the most tragic of side effects. A terrible thirst. I am invisible to him. And now I must be seen.

but ultimately the takeaway should be that he touches me less than you might have thought. That sort of thing can do a number on your thinking when you watch him so easily touch someone else.

tell myself that I’m not even remotely unnerved by how quickly the tides of him can change. Because the ocean changes quickly too, and it’s fine and safe and people hardly ever die in it.

Freckles that kiss his cheeks and his shoulders like I wish I was allowed to, but he doesn’t like affection on anyone’s terms but his own.

Peter can be callous and impetuous; he’s incredibly temperamental. He’s hotheaded, he’s arrogant, he’s proud—but then there’s that boyish charm. And you can excuse so much because he’s never known a parent. Every time I’m with him and he’s good to me, it’s akin to successfully petting a lion. I’m immensely proud and relieved and delighted that the lion’s decided not to bite me, but he can bite me, and when he does, it can be quite severe.

The bites, I think they might be worth it for getting to lie down with a lion—it’s a special kind of thing that only happens once in a lifetime, I suppose. I do wonder, though, might the span of my lifetime be significantly less because of it? And if so, is that worth it?

Some families pass on red hair, some families pass on a cancer gene. Mine—we’re generationally brokenhearted.

“Who we love, how we love them—it shapes us.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Well, I don’t know what shape I am anymore.”