Older

by Jennifer Hartmann

I’m always running. But I’m running in circles, and it’s exhausting, and it’s endless, and I just want to be free.”

While the end of summer for most eighteen year olds marked shining, new adventures ahead—college, moving out, career-planning—for me, it signaled nothing but a replay.

“The next moment always sounds better than the one I’m in.” Again, I couldn’t relate. When you’re always fearing the next moment, you tend to appreciate the good ones while you have them.

His arms were not meant to hold me, and yet they were the safest sanctuary in the midst of my crumbling mind.

Love alone wasn’t always enough to keep us safe. Sometimes, it was our ultimate undoing.

I latched onto the lighter mood. “Will you be my eyes when I’m not around?” “Your eyes?” “Yeah. My wing-woman.” Her cheeks pinkened as she swiped a smear of flour off her cheekbone. The action only added more flour. “Nope. Sorry. My loyalty lies with Tara.” “Bet I can win you over.” “I can’t be won. It’s called integrity.” The side-eyed grin she sent me was as dangerous as it was charming. “Hmm.” I leaned forward on my forearms, staring at her as she sealed the dough pouches and popped them in a pan, one by one. “A challenge.”

My bruises would become trophies, my scars souvenirs.

My story thus far was nothing more than a messy first draft.

“Damn. Who pissed you off?” Scotty materialized in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the frame, arms folded. I sent him a sidelong glance, hardly faltering as the bag pendulated in front of me. “Today?” I answered through a hard exhale. “Bob Ross.” “Impossible.” “It is possible. His trees are way too happy. It’s unrealistic and offensive to the sad trees.”

“Or maybe I know from experience.” I pulsed my eyebrows wickedly, then pumped a fist up and down to mimic stabbing motions. Scotty’s brows furrowed as he stared at my pumping hand. I stilled. It absolutely looked like I was giving the air a thorough hand-job. Whoops.

He was twenty; only a year older than me. He was also a good guy. A compatible potential boyfriend. What a concept. But my heart still recklessly ached for the thirty-five-year-old father

I supposed my tastes were more in line with older, wiser, emotionally distant men who smelled like earth and ivy, warm amber,

Scotty stalked into my line of sight, and when I twisted to face him, I noticed Reed had vanished into the adjacent workout room. “I’m wondering if dinner could become problematic,” Scotty noted, his shaggy hair pulled back into a small bun at the nape of his neck. I frowned. “Why?” “That looked more like foreplay than fighting.” My cheeks burned, double-flushed with post-workout exertion and embarrassment. Apparently, we hadn’t been subtle. “We were training.” “Training for what exactly?” “The same thing as you.” His face scrunched up with distaste. “Unlikely.”

As the sky darkened to charcoal-gray, so did my spirits.

“How’s it going with Scotty?” he asked me, his tone as disinterested as a rock observing a river. I stared straight ahead, my reply more frozen than my fingers. “Fantastic.” “Really,” he bit out. “Yep. He’s sweet, kind, and attentive. Treats me like an equal.” I clenched my jaw. “How about you? Any lady friends lately?” “A few.” “Good for you.”

Oh cmon

There was a difference between staying quiet and having nothing left to say. I had words. Plenty of them. But I wanted to be where the peace was, and sometimes that was in purging the words, and sometimes it was in withholding them.

her outfit as mismatched as we were.

When she was bright and happy, I was drawn to her laughter-lit smiles and the bounce in her step. When she was sullen and self-deprecating, I was desperate to scrub the soot off her skin and bring her back to life.

The more time I spent with her, the more my attraction grew. The more my attraction grew, the more I hated myself.

Thirty-five-year-old men didn’t just fall for teenagers. It was twisted and wrong, and sometimes I had to wonder if there was something wrong with me.

I inhaled a breath laced with the residual smoke from the blown-out candle but only tasted her. Vanilla beans, peach pie, and hair spun with honey; a recipe for catastrophe. When I lifted my hand to her clasped palms, she didn’t let go. She wanted catastrophe.

She watched the movie. I watched her.

What the hell? Frown secured, I made my way down the hall until my bare feet entered her line of sight and she halted mid-thrust. She collapsed to her stomach, then inched up on her knees, a line of sweat curling the baby hairs that rimmed her forehead. “Shit. I woke you.” “Yeah,” I admitted. “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.” My frown deepened as I folded my arms across my chest. “Do you always take to cardio when you can’t sleep?” Licking a dot of sweat off her upper lip, she exhaled a winded breath. “No. I share a room with Tara, so I usually do it the old-fashioned way and stare blankly at the ceiling until sunrise.”

“You’re mixing me all up inside. I don’t know whether to hug you, strangle you, or kiss you.”

“Far. Away. From me.” The anger fizzled out as her eyes flashed, an inch below mine, a smirk curling on her pretty, pouty lips. “You wish. But you can’t stay away from me.”