And then it changed.
Her breath faltered, not with desire but with abrupt, sharp panic. The muscles in her shoulders locked. Her fingers in my shirt clenched, not to pull me closer, but like she suddenly needed something to hold on to.
She broke away fast, like she’d been burned, eyes wide and bright with shock.
“I—I can’t,” she stammered. “Powell, I just?—”
“Hey, Jess, it’s okay?—”
“I have to go.” She backed up, shaking her head, already reaching for her coat. “I can’t do this right now. I just?—”
She didn’t finish. She shrugged into her coat one-armed, half-missing the sleeve, gave up trying to fix it, and bolted for the door.
“Jess—”
The door opened and closed in two rapid movements, a cold draft rushing in behind her like the space she left snapping shut.
Silence dropped into the kitchen with the finality of a gavel.
I stood there, breath unsteady, frosting smeared across my hand where I’d touched her earlier, heart pounding like I’d sprinted a mile in turnout gear.
She’d kissed me back.
Every part of her had said yes—until her brain woke up, threw every old wound and story on the table, and slammed on the brakes.
I dragged a hand down my face, half on the edge of laughter, half on the edge of panic.
“Jesus,” I whispered into the empty room. “What the hell do I do with that?”
FOURTEEN
JESS
By the time I turned onto Meghan’s street, my hands had stopped shaking, which would’ve been an improvement if everything from my collarbones down wasn’t so muted. Like somebody had turned the volume down on my body but left my brain blaring on max.
I parked halfway straight in her driveway, stared through the windshield for a few heartbeats, and tried to make my thoughts line up.
You went to his house.
You kissed him.
You ran.
That last part seemed the least surprising. Running was practically my superpower. The first two… My mind kept circling back to them like a tongue poking at a sore tooth.
The porch light was on. I grabbed my purse out of reflex and made myself get out of the car. My legs carried me up the walkway on autopilot. I didn’t even bother to knock—none of us did on nights like these.
I stepped inside and called, quieter than I meant to, “I, um… need nachos. And… minimal judgment.”
From the kitchen came Meghan’s voice. “Get in here, sweetheart.”
Pepper added, “No promises on the judgment.”
Allie chimed in, “But the nachos are sacred. Those are non-negotiable.”
The familiar cadence of them, the stupid little ritual, loosened something tight in my chest. I followed the sound to the kitchen.
Meghan was at the counter with a cutting board and a pile of tomatoes. Pepper had a giant bag of tortilla chips open and was shaking some onto a sheet pan. Allie was rummaging in the fridge like she lived there, emerging with cheese and sour cream and one of the fancy salsas Meghan splurged on when she was “having a week.” I’d texted them once I’d hurled myself into my car, and they’d already assembled like my own personal squad of Avengers.
