What I haven’t established—and it’s something I’m growing more desperate to discover each time we’re together—is, does her hurt stem from the way she feels about Tucker, or is the pain on Billie’s face more to do with rejection and loss?
For me, it initially began as the former. Even while we were still together, I could feel myself losing Maria as the relationship and love we’d built slipped through my fingers. Now, it’s more to do with circumstance and fear that I’ll never find that again, and if I do, it’s possible that Maria will get there before me.
I take a step toward Billie, the fragrance from her nutmeg shampoo surrounding me as I enter her space.
I’m closer to her than I should be, than I need to be, and I wonder if she’ll retreat and take a step back.
She doesn’t, and I inch forward until I can see the flutter of her pulse point.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s his words or actions that make you cry, Billie. The mere presence of your tears tells me that he isn’t man enough and hedefinitelyisn’t the one for you.”
Billie’s chest stops mid-rise, and I hold my own breath, waiting for her to respond.
“You think Tucker is a dickhead?”
The sound of her voice washes relief through me. My laststatement was designed to offer her reassurance, but it came off as way more than that. Suggestive almost.
I smirk, fingers twitching in my pockets, desperate to brush the few remaining strands of hair from her face.
Anything that obstructs my view of Billie’s eyes annoys the shit out of me.
“Does that question even warrant an answer?” I say with a smile.
Billie’s tongue peeks out, sliding a wet trail across her bottom lip. “I guess not, no.”
We stand, eyes fixed on each other for the longest moment before she breaks the connection, gazing around her new apartment.
“It’s going to take me forever to unpack everything. Mom promised she’d stop by tomorrow after her shift to help out, but I hate being surrounded by boxes. It feels like I’ve been living like this for an eternity—all my things inaccessible and stored away.” She releases a heavy sigh, breath fanning against my face. “After a while, it gets to you.”
I should probably—definitely—leave and let her spend her first night in peace. I have an early morning skate and a gym session I need to get through, including a rehab workout for my knee.
“What if I pulled out my phone and ordered a pizza, and then we got to work on making this place feel more like a home for you and Blake?”
Her full lips slowly curve into a smile, and the guilt I was feeling a second after I suggested sticking around to help out ebbs, replaced with satisfaction that I turned Billie’s mood into a happier one.
“What kind of pizza are we talking about?”
The way she asks a trivial question in such a serious tone has me chuckling as I finally pull my hands from my pockets, phone securedin my left palm.
“Because if you choose anything with anchovies, then I’d rather live out of boxes and suitcases for the rest of time.”
I pause on searching for local pizza joints that deliver. “What about with pineapple?”
She rises to her tiptoes, peering over my phone to check what I’m adding to the cart. “If I said that pineapple was my favorite topping, would our friendship be over?”
When our eyes meet, we’re even closer, lips inches apart, breaths mixing.
She tastes so good.
Back away, Emmett.
I’ve known Billie for over a decade, and during any of those years, if I’d been asked if we were friends, my answer would’ve been an unequivocal yes.
Today, that word feels inadequate. Maybe even inaccurate.
“Not many people like pineapple on their pizza.” She continues talking. “Clara, my friend back in Austin, thinks it’s the grossest thing she’s ever tasted.”
I scroll to a large pineapple pizza with everything, hitting Add to Cart just below the image.
