Stop being selfish.
Make it up to Sage.
Make it up to Sky.
Become best friends with Carter again.
I haven’t made a whole lotta progress on this. I did help Sky shop, and that was fun. But also, a few outfits on her grandmother’s dime doesn’t exactly absolve, you know, me deleting eight years of her life by being a dumbass. I’m still not sure number four is even possible, so I’m not focusing on that right now.
ButMake it up to Sage—I already have a plan for that. Sort of.
Opening up my laptop, I begin my search to figure out where I’m going to source all the pretty, pretty dahlias for her September wedding.
Carter walks in at sixon the dot.
If things were like before, when we were still BFFs, I know how he’d be. He’d walk in with a huge smile, the one that makeseven my toes feel warm and tingly and weird. He’d say some corny-ass shit like “Honey, I’mhome.” He’d greet me with a hug and a peck on the cheek, ’cause that’s what Latines do, whether we’re dating or not or want each other or not or even know each other or not.
He doesn’t do any of that. He pauses as he takes off his shoes in the hallway, and through the reflection of one of the living room mirrors, I see his silhouette. He stands and squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, like even the idea of looking at me makes him feel like he’s being shipped off to war. He turns and walks in, his eyes meeting mine immediately.
Lord, he looks handsome. His face a little brown from the sun, his button-down flannel rumpled from a day of good, manual labor. His jeans snug, his feet bare. Being slightly turned on by a man’s hairy feet—that’s where I am, I guess. When those feet belong to Carter, at least.
“Uh. Hi.” Then his gaze darts everywhere else but me. “You cooked?”
His obvious discomfort pisses me off. But thing is, I’ve already run too damn much this week. My right knee feels like it’s going to crack, it hurts so bad. So all I can do now is suck it up. No outbursts, no lightning storm rampages. Just take a deep breath, in and out, counting, and then I nod. “Uh-huh,” I say as brightly as I can. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll bring you a plate.”
“You don’t have to—”
Aaaand my patience runs out. “Jesus Christ, Carter, have a fucking seat, will you?”
He closes his mouth and sits, his eyes on me, even more wary now.
And you know what my brain goes to in that moment?
I think about ordering Carter around in a very different circumstance. In bedroom-related circumstances. And I’m not going to lie. It’s a turn-on. So much so, that momentarily my anger dampens, and then I realize what my effed-up brain is up to, and I get evenangrier.
What iswrongwith me?
I finish topping our dinner—blackened salmon over cacio e pepe, and a side of crispy Brussels sprouts—with a little flourish of chopped flat-leaf parsley and then take our plates to the table.
Thunder rumbles nearby, close enough to make the silverware I’ve already set on the table ever-so-slightly rattle.
“Looks great,” Carter says, and then he digs in. “Holy shit.Teal.This is…mmm…sogood.” Thesoundshe makes. My God. Has he always eaten food the same way most people have orgasms? Or am I just, like, in major need of getting laid?
My brain flashes images to me that are basically X-rated. Images of Carter. Tied to the bed. While I endlessly tease him with my tongue.
