Until the end.

15 Molly

Daryl didn't kiss me again, and I couldn't decide if I was mildly disappointed about it or completely devastated.

Most of the time, I didn’t know how to act around him, because I wasn’t sure of his feelings.

Well, I knew Daryl liked me, but I wasn’t entirely sure how deep that like went. Did he like me the way a guy liked the girl he grew up with, or did it run deeper?

Did he like me the way I liked him; the way-more-than-just-bordering-on-love kind of like?

I wanted to be brave enough to ask him straight out. To be the kind of girl who wasn’t afraid of a guy's rejection. I wanted to be the girl he proudly announced as his girl. I wanted to be the one wearing his jersey on Friday nights. I wanted to scream from the rooftops that Daryl King belonged to me just as much now as he had when we were kids.

However, my uncertainty and lack of confidence was crippling. I couldn't see why he would want to be with me, and that made me question everything. It made me retreat and find comfort and safety in the friend zone.

One thing I had noticed since our reunion was how incredibly professional he was when we weren't alone. It was almost like his entire life was scripted. He had a polite and respectful, albeit rehearsed, response for every question he was asked at school or in town. He truly had been conditioned for the stars.

The big time…

The thought caused a surge of panic to rise inside of me.

Was I contributing to my own heart break by falling in so deep with him?

Could I let him go when the time came?

Could I survive the loss a second time?

You don't have a choice…

Instead of allowing myself to brood and dwell on my fears, doubts and insecurities, I concentrated on how good it felt to spend time with him, and appreciate just how happy he made me feel. Being with him almost felt like I had reclaimed the comfort blanket of my youth, the one that wrapped itself tightly around my body, keeping me safe from harm.

It was an addicting feeling.

He was addicting, and I never wanted to let go again.

Knowing that I would eventually have to let him go wasn't nearly as depressing as the sight of Daryl's bruised torso when he climbed through my window a couple of nights later.

The moment he yanked his shirt over his head and my eyes landed on the marring on his golden skin, a surge of outrage flooded through every molecule in my body.

He could explain away his injuries to the rest of the town, put it all down to football, but not me.

Never me.

I knew where those bruises came from.

I knew who put those marks on his body.

I'd been seeing those exact same marks on his skin since kindergarten.