Prologue

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HIS & MINE

A (Not So) Innocent Love Story

by Ami

***

epigraph:

"He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

- From Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

***

Prologue

***

Boys are so stupid.

Oblivious.

Idiotic.

Distracting.

Ugh.

Well, not boys. He's not a boy anymore. He's... a man. A grown-up. Mature. Experienced.

I frigging hate him.

I hate the way he treats me like I'm his little sister. Like I'm a little girl, like I'm still that kid he grew up with.

I'm turning sixteen this week. I'm not a darn child.

Just because I don't like swearing doesn't mean I'm a child, okay?

Hey Feelz.
I heard it's someone's birthday
on Friday. Tryin to figure out
the best gift for her. Any ideas?

Dang him. Dang that stupid nickname from when I was eight that makes my heart ache so dang hard in my stupid chest. Dang his stupid handsome smile, and those stupid big brown eyes with those stupidly long eyelashes and that stupid, stupid playful look on his face that turns me into a pile of mush every single time.

The only thing I want for my sixteenth birthday is for Luke Wilson Rowley to give me my first kiss.

Like I'd ever tell him that. He'd probably feel sorry for me. He'd look at me like that pathetic little girl with a devastating, colossal crush on him.

I know he's kissed other girls before. Older, prettier girls. When I was in grade nine and he was in grade eleven, I remember seeing him and Jaylene Graysen with their faces attached, sitting on one of those benches beside the field at school.

It made me physically sick to my stupid stomach.

I just... want him to notice me. To see me, Ophelia Kathryn Stone, who's smart and funny and beautiful and grown. Not... Feelz, who used to force him to sit there while I did his make-up when I was seven, or who always beat him in Mario Kart when I was nine because he let me, or who always traded ice-cream with him when I was ten because I liked the flavour he chose better.

He's only two years older than me, for heaven's sake. Dad is four years older than Mom. Same for Aunt Ali and Uncle Zach. And, Uncle Dylan is six years older than Aunt Vicky.

I just want him to love me back.

Not like his little sister.

There's one thing that I want
that you'll never guess in a
million years, Loo

He hates it when I call him Loo. We used to laugh because Uncle Dylan always called the bathroom a "loo" in that accent of his. Darcy and I started calling Luke "Loo" as a silly joke. Obviously he isn't too fond of having a nickname that's akin to 'toilet'.

I stopped calling him that a while back, because I know he doesn't like it.

Back with the toilet jokes again, huh?
It's been a while.
You mad at me or something?

Or something.

It's even harder because we don't hang out as much anymore. Not as much as we used to. He graduated this past June. He's been taking the year off to figure out what he wants to do. Working a lot. Being almost-eighteen. Adulting.

And I'm still stuck here in grade eleven. I'm so over high school. I already know what I want to do with my life. So why am I still sitting between these four walls, trying to pass math when I'll never need it again?

I bet I can guess exactly what
you want for your birthday

Ha! I'd like to see you try.

You underestimate me.

I think I estimate you just right

We'll see.

I guess we will.

See you Friday, Feelz

See you, Luke

***

"Damn, girl." Celine stops fiddling with her weave and turns her full attention to me as I step out of the change-room stall. She rakes her shrewd gaze over me from head to toe, letting out one of those sassy, impressed whistles she does so well. "That's the one, for sure. You look fine, Fee."

"Are you sure?" I twist around to get a good look at myself in the full-length mirror that hangs beside the bench she's sitting on, trying to catch a glimpse of my butt. My family and friends are throwing me a Sweet Sixteen party on Friday night. November 16th. It's Wednesday after school and I still haven't found the perfect outfit.

Something that says sophisticated and mature and grown-up but not tacky or slutty or too revealing. It's not an easy look to try and pull off.

"Let me see that sexy white ass of yours. Turn around." She pops her bright pink bubble gum like a pro and swirls her finger in a mini circle to emphasize her point.

I oblige her. The dress is a deep, dark, lush shade of green. It falls mid-calf and has a slit down the side of my right leg that travels just up to the top of my thigh. The silky, chiffon-y material flows really elegantly but hugs the shape of my waist and hips and butt kinda nicely. Boat-neck collar and short sleeves.

I think it'll look good with those black heels I bought a little while back, and with the delicate gold necklace and bracelet set that Aunt Vanessa brought for me from Paris a couple years ago.

"Does it... make me look... you know...?"

She quirks an eyebrow, knows exactly what I'm trying to ask her. "If that yummy-looking idiot doesn't wanna plant one on those pretty lips of yours, girl, he's most definitely playing for the other team."

I snort. Luke is definitely not gay. "So, yeah?"

"Hell yeah, bitch."

***

"Happy birthday, sis." Darcy tugs me into a bear hug before we sit down to breakfast on Friday morning. He's in his third year of university. Political sciences at U of T. He wants to be a lawyer like Aunt Vanessa and Grandpa Will.

I'm going to major in English Lit when I get to university. Depending on what happens after undergrad, I might do another two years to get my ed-degree, maybe teach high-school. Or follow Grandpa Andrew's footsteps and get my PhD, teach at the university level. It's all pretty far away, though. Definitely not close enough.

"Hey, princess." Dad walks into the kitchen, pulls me into his arms as soon as Darce lets me go. "Happy sixteenth, sweetheart." He kisses the top of my head, musses up my hair like he always does.

"Thanks, Daddy."

Mom was the first one up. She already gave me my big birthday hello. We sit down at the table for breakfast before we all head out for the day. They made my favourite, eggs Benedict. We rarely have it because it's such a hassle. Mom even made the hollandaise from scratch, poached the eggs the perfect way.

We talk about the party tonight. Guests will start getting here at 6. Full house, apparently. I don't usually love being the centre of attention, but I guess you only turn sixteen once. They're busy talking about all the people that are going to be there tonight. Uncle Zach and Aunt Ali, Aunt Vanessa and Uncle Nick. Even old Uncle Roger and Aunt Cyndi are coming. Mom jokes that I'll be drowning in presents.

Except all I'm really thinking about is the one present that I want but almost most certainly will not be getting.

***

"Who is this beautiful, confident, intelligent young woman and what has she done with my little girl?" Mom takes a good long look at me, a happy smile on her face and a little bit of wetness shining in her eyes.

I can't help but blush. My outfit looks, I admit, really nice. Mom helped me do my hair into soft waves that fall just to my shoulders. She even lent me a pair of her real gold earrings that match my bracelet and necklace. I think Dad bought them for her for one of their anniversaries or something. "Thanks, Mom." Darn it. She's about to cry those happy tears of hers. I really don't want to get emotional with her and smudge my make-up.

People start arriving. The evening flies by in a rush. So many people. So many happy birthdays and compliments and gifts and jokes and smiles and laughs. Mom and Dad knew I wanted to keep it to just closer friends and family and family friends. I guess those distinctions get blurred a lot around here. And, they did what they said they would, except I realize that we have a lot of close friends and family and family friends. The house is packed.

There's one person who I'm hyperaware of, the second he arrives. How is possible for someone to look so perfect in just jeans and a black polo shirt? I had to stifle a laugh when I saw him. He loves his t-shirts. I bet Uncle D and Aunt V forced him into something slightly less casual just for the occasion.

I'm across the room and my eyes zero in on him the moment he passes through the door. He's carrying a neatly wrapped present under his arm, maybe the size of... I don't know. Something biggish. I watch him greet a couple people, but he seems distracted. He's turning his head around the room, searching for someone. As soon as he looks my way, spots me, his face breaks out into that stunning smile of his that gets my heart racing, sends the butterflies into overdrive.

We walk towards each other at the same time. "Hey, Feelz." His bright gaze travels over me, lightly, head to toe and back. He's not the only one who's taken a good look at me tonight. I guess I look... different. But he's the only one that's stolen all the breath from my lungs, just by touching me with his eyes.

I will my voice to sound steady and normal and not like the breathy, light-headed mess I feel. "Hey, Luke."

He shifts his body like he wants to give me a hug or something but he's carrying the gift beneath his arm and it gets in the way. "Happy birthday, Fee."

My first instinct is to play with my fingers but I force myself to stay composed and tall and at least pretend that I'm not a total lame-o goner.

"Sixteen. Damn." He runs a hand through his thick, tousled dark brown hair. The corners of his lips twitch. He hesitates for a second before saying, "You look really good, Fee." He sounds so... sincere. It's such a simple, easy compliment but my stupid, pathetic love-struck brain hangs onto every syllable.

"Thanks." I give him what I hope is a genuine, grateful smile.

His expression looks so... soft. He blinks a couple times, as if to snap out of a daze. "Oh, um..." He holds the present out to me with both hands, offers me one of those adorable lopsided smiles of his. "This is for you. I... Well, when you open it, you'll..." He chuckles, clears his throat.

He seems almost... shy? Psht. Yeah, no. Luke Rowley. Most perfect boy in the universe. Not shy.

He looks like he wants to say something else but we're both whisked away. Food, photos, more food. Presents.

They make me open a couple of them then and there. A gorgeous silver Pandora bracelet from Aunt Vanessa and Uncle Nick. A new pair of soccer cleats from Uncle Dylan. My curiosity gets the better of me and I tear the light-blue wrapping off of Luke's present.

Oh. Oh my goodness. He didn't. A boxed-set of beautiful, ornately-decorated, leather-bound books. Classics. Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and Jane Eyre. The pages are edged with gold. They're so decadent and precious and...

I can't help my first reaction, which is to throw my arms around him. He's sitting next to me on the couch and braces a hand onto my back to stop us both from toppling over.

His body is so warm and strong and tall and lithe and... There's a room full of people watching so I pull away just as quick, instantly embarrassed.

"Thank you, Luke. They're... incredible. Really."

I'm amazed by how thoughtful and perfect the gift is. "I'm glad you like it, Feelz," he responds, soft and low. I swear there's a small, adorable flush painting his tanned face.

"Well, thanks for that, Luke," Darce calls out from across the room. "How the hell am I supposed to top that one?"

Everyone laughs.

The night passes by in a flurry. They make me blow out the candles on my birthday cake, tell me to make a wish.

I honestly wish I had more self-respect than this, but as I close my eyes and blow away the flames, what I'm wishing for is for Luke to see me the way I want him to see me. For him to kiss me. For that to be just the beginning.

I know it's useless wishing for the impossible. But the relentless heaviness in my heart won't let me give up on my impossible wish, not yet.

***

It's nearly ten o'clock, as things are starting to wind down, when I excuse myself to carry some of the gifts to the safety of my room.

Maybe that's a little bit of an excuse to take a breather, away from the aching tug in my chest. I flip on one of two light switches, bathing my bedroom in a gentle, partial glow, lost in thought.

I can't, can't get him out of my head. If I had my way, I'd stand in the corner with him, talking to him for hours. He still makes me laugh and smile like no one else does. But I can't, because that's rude and pathetic and makes everything so obvious. I'm suddenly sure that the way I feel towards that boy is obvious to the entire world except him.

I blame my love of Victorian and Romantic romance novels.

I'm better than this. I deserve better than this heart-ache and uncertainty. Shouldn't I just say something? Can't I just... say something to him? So he knows?

I'm startled from my angsty stereotypical-teenage reverie by a soft knock on my door, which I left ajar.

I turn, and it's none other than the object of every single daydream and fantasy ever who stands in the threshold to my room, hands in his pockets, looking at me.

I give him a standard, friendly smile that does nothing to betray the way I really feel about him. He returns it with a smile of his own.

He steps into my room, gently pushes the door behind him so it's the way he found it when he came in.

I don't say anything, neither does he. He just stands a couple metres in front of me, a hazard to my sanity and well-being.

I haven't had a boy in my room since... ever. You know, one who isn't related to me. Well, besides Luke. But not for a long time. Years, even, I think.

For a few moments, he just looks around, takes in the overstuffed bookshelves, the light blue paint, the few pieces of art that hang on the walls.

He finally says, "Looks way different than it used to. I remember it being really... pink."

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Luke."

"I know that, Ophelia."

Ophelia. My name sounds so smooth and wonderful and adult when he says it in that low voice of his.

He takes a step closer to me so he's less than a foot away, so I can feel the warmth coming off of his hard body. My first instinct is to take a step backwards. But I don't.

My shallow breath catches in my throat when he reaches out, tucks a wave of my hair away from my face, grazes the shell of my ear, brings his hand forward to brush a couple crooked fingers oh so softly against my cheek.

Every last inch of my body bursts into flames from the tiniest touch of his skin against mine. I watch him, barely breathing and completely spell-bound. Watch the half-light of my room create shadows along the angles of his too-gorgeous-for-words face, watch the sparkle in those dazzling dark eyes of his, watch the intensity with which he watches me back.

"Not a little girl." A beat. "But you're my girl, Fee," he says softly. His lips tilt up at the sides into a crooked, almost shy little grin that turns all my insides into mush. Every single inside, obliterated, into fluffy cinders in the pit of my gut.

"Luke," I whisper, my voice cracking. It hurts. It really, really frigging hurts. But at the same time, it's the softest, brightest feeling in the entire world.

"Feelz." He takes another small step forward so he's just inches from me this time. The swell of my chest is only a small, minuscule distance from the lean, flat muscle of his. He towers over me, a good foot, foot-and-a-half taller than me. Looks down at me with something on his face that I've never seen before. Or at least, something that I've never admitted to or acknowledged seeing there before.

My head tilts back, instinctively, so I can look up into his eyes. My gaze floats almost unconsciously to his mouth as he says, "I told you I'd figure out what you wanted for your birthday, didn't I?"

I bite my lip, flick my eyes back up to catch his, only to find his gaze focused on the lower half of my face. I must be seeing things, right? He's not looking at my mouth? Is he? "As perfect as the books you got me are, Luke, that wasn't exactly what I was talking about."

"Mm." He lets out this raspy, rumbling humming sound from low in his chest that makes every hair on my body stand on end. "That's not what I was talking about, either."

I swallow back the dryness in my throat. His mouth is maybe... six? eight? inches away from mine. I can faintly feel the warmth of his breath just brushing my cheeks. His proximity is absolutely dizzying. "Then what?"

He doesn't answer for a long time. He just looks down at me, and I look up at him. And then he reaches out, brushes his thumb like whisper over my lips, nudging my chin gently with his index finger that's curled into an open fist with the rest of his hand. I can't help it when his touch tears a breathless sigh from my mouth.

"You're beautiful, Fee."

"I like it when you call me Ophelia."

"Ophelia." Before I even know what's happening, his hands—man hands, not boy hands—are on my waist, and he's pulling me gently towards him so the front of him presses against the front of me. My hands fly to the top of his chest to brace myself. Then he rasps, "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

And my entire world explodes, and then I don't have to say anything, I just watch him with wide eyes as he threads one of his hands into the back of my hair, tilts my head back, and then his face is closing the distance and his lips are touching mine and my lips are touching his and... his mouth is warm, and soft, and real, and... and he's kissing me and I'm kissing him back and it's sweet, slow, goes on for ever and ever and I just stand there and melt. Fireworks and grenades and nuclear bombs detonate, igniting me from the inside out.

What even are knees? I don't have any, because they've turned to jelly. He tastes like everything I imagined he would taste like but a gazillion and one times better. He tastes like softness and wetness and sweetness and friendship and a hundred ice-cream cones, four dozen slurpies, a couple dozen birthday cakes, pizza and popcorn and movies and sunshine and rainbows and unicorns and like Luke, Luke Luke Luke.

When he pulls away, just a little, just for breath, there's a hair-thin, glimmering strand of wetness that extends from his mouth to mine. I lick my swollen lips and it falls away.

"I've been waiting forever to do that," he tells me, his mouth an inch from mine, his fingers pressing into my waist, his eyes shining down at me.

"Can... we do it again?"

He smiles that brilliant, crooked smile at me and dips back down, captures my mouth once again. I wind my fingers into his hair like I've dreamt of doing for just about forever, and

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