“I don’t fucking remember,” he whispers, hands coming up from under the table to aggressively rub the nape of his neck.
“You don’t remember falling, and you don’t remember ruining our neighbor’s garden, so can you tell me what do you remember? What happened to you?” I ask, moving over to the fridge to grab us a couple of bottled waters.
Snatching the bottle from my hand, he gulps the entirety of it in a second. The crackling of the plastic grating uncomfortably in my ears.
“It was my anniversary last night… had to celebrate it.”
Ah, fuck.
“Shit. Fuck, dude, I’m sorry… So where’d you go?” I ask, taking in the glossy shine that glazes over his eyes as he stares past my shoulder, his mind taking him to a broken place we all try to stay clear of.
“Went to the corner store and bought a couple of bottles of my man Julio and then just drove… my car ran outta gas somewhere on the seventy-two, so I laid in some field and drank. I drank until Yasmine was there and kept drinking until she wasn’t. I called a cab sometime around noon, but I don’t remember arriving… next thing I know, I was here, throwing up in your bushes.”
I ignore the vomit because my mind lingers on what he said before.
How do you explain to somebody that they won’t find their love at the bottom of a bottle?
I don’t think you can…
Pushing away from the counter, I give him a quick pat on the back, pretending to ignore the trickle of moisture coming from his eyes as I offer my comfort. “Fuckin’ sorry, bro.”
Amira emerges from the hallway then, a somber look in her eyes as she fiddles with her dripping hair. “Hey, Ash. How are you feeling?”
He doesn’t answer, eyes now fixated on a chip in the wooden table as his mind drifts to another place.
I open my arms, waiting for her to step into my embrace, but whenever Ash is in a mood like this, she tends to keep her distance, not wanting to flaunt our relationship in front of him.
Her concern is sweet, but fuck.
I want her.
“Like shit. I’m just gonna shower and then sleep. Night guys.” And with that, Ash is gone, slipping past her and into the bathroom.
My eyes linger on her as hers stare down at the floor.
I’m just about to ask her what’s on her mind when a shrill beeping rings through the air.
“Shit!” I shout, spinning around to take the burning chicken off the stove, throwing it in the sink with the lid to contain the smoke coming off of its charred skin.
The fire alarm stops, and a second later, I feel Amira step up beside me. Glancing at her from the corner of my eye, I watch her slap her hand over her mouth, barely holding back the chuckles that slip between her fingers.
I’m too embarrassed to face her as I listen to the pan sizzling in the wet sink. “I wanted to make your favorite chicken, but, um.”
“That’s okay. I wasn’t hungry, anyway. Thank you, though.” She rises on her tiptoes to press a kiss on my cheek.
Before she can pull away, I grip her by the waist and prop her up on the counter. Her legs spread for me instantly, whether it's because of reflex or because she wants me there. Either way, I take advantage and situate myself between her thighs.
I move slowly, dragging my hands from her waist to rest behind her knees. The soft material of her cotton, grey yoga pants creates friction against my palm, heating my already burning skin.
Her body leans slightly forward, trembling against me as I press my lips to her collarbone.
“Is this okay?” I ask as I begin to move my hands more north, my fingers dipping under the hem of her shirt to graze the soft flesh of her stomach.
Amira doesn’t speak, her breathing coming out in labored puffs as she nods against my head.
Removing my lips from her neck, I pepper kisses up her jaw and around her lips until she’s needy for my mouth. Finally, after two long, torturous beats, she presses her lips against mine, allowing me to slip through the small part and tangle my tongue with hers.
My fingers are greedy, searching higher and higher until my thumbs graze the underwire of her bra.
