boston {h.s.}

trente-six.*

"I IMAGINE THIS is the end," Harry tells me, his lips and breath hot against my ear. He's dancing behind me, though, not on me. Until I can feel his breath fanning against me, I'd presumed there to be space between our drunken bodies. Almost as though we were no longer magnetic, we instead grew to be two sides of the same magnet; impossible to force together. Something dangerous was dancing between us, neither one knowing what it is, though both of us respecting its presence.

My own brows lower in confusion. I take a second to respond. The words take a minute to identify themselves—to prove themselves to even be English. "I already told you it was," I finally yell back, turning to face him. Equally inebriated and uncoordinated, I balance myself by the weight of my fingers clutching against his muscular bicep. He hardly flinches as a result of our contact.

Harry shakes his head. I'm not getting it. "We can't be friends, Margeaux."

It makes sense that we have, literally, danced around this all night. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to mention it. Maybe I didn't notice that such a thing needed to be mentioned at all. I'd never thought that I was exceptionally naïve, though, like most things Harry makes me rethink everything that I thought I knew about myself. The impossibility of our friendship beyond this never occurred to me. Not until the moment that I walked up to him and told him that whatever it was between us could no longer continue. Let's celebrate he had offered, friendly in intent.

Or, so I had thought. More realistically, I realize that this is our last night together. The realization hits me all at once, my fingers dropping from his bicep. I stumble, the throng of people around us both the perfect cover, though, also perfectly unpredictable. Jostled slightly, he reaches out and balances me. Poor example. He, too, is drunk. Together we fall, rightened by a group of girls who give us dirty looks before elbowing us away.

"We can't be?" I ask when we're able to look at each other again. The contact is gone. All but what can be committed by the eyes. His green ones sear against mine. I hate how childish I sound. I hope that the thumping volume of the pounding bass covers up the vulnerability.

Once, twice he shakes his head. "No."

"Why?"

He reaches up. He's looking at me so intently, and I'm looking at him in the same way that I almost miss the way that his fingers curve around a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind my ear. The touch is gentle; the kind of touch that I doubt if I've ever experienced from him before. I don't hear him say the words so much as I feel them resonating deep in my soul. "I'll never stop wanting you."

There's honesty in his words—the kind of honesty that I doubt if I've ever been able to experience from another person before. It causes a rumble in my chest that I'm entirely unfamiliar with. "Harry—"

I don't know how I planned on finishing the sentence. I'm thankful when he interrupts me. Flashing lights exist around us. People are yelling, singing, cheering, and sloshing back alcoholic beverages. Certainly Harry had. I had before I'd even come. There's a sort of electric energy in this club; the kind of energy that makes me feel as though I am existing outside of the bonds of society that I've come to accept. I think he feels it, too.

"One last night," he proposes.

"Harry," I say, putting my hand against his chest as though to hold him away. I'm dismayed when I fist around the material of his shirt and physically restrain myself from the inexplicable desire to pull him in closer. Only the light illuminating the diamond worn on my finger as it holds against his chest prevents me from acting out of turn. "I can't. I have to be the better person for him. He sees me as the better person."