Again.
I watch her disappear into the pharmacy, the bell over the door jingling in her wake, and something cracks in my chest. Sharp. Painful. Like a rib breaking inward.
Six years ago, I kissed her on our porch while Callum snored on the couch inside, and she ran then too. Vanished before sunrise like a ghost. Like I'd done something unforgivable. Like the kiss we both wanted was the worst thing that could have happened.
I've replayed that night a thousand times. The firelight catches in her blonde hair, turning it gold. The way she laughed at my terrible carpentry jokes, the ones everyone else groans at but she thought were funny. The way she looked at me when everyone else had gone inside, with this intensity, this focus, like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
Her hands. God, her hands. Small and soft but capable. The way she'd touched the table I was building, running her fingers over the wood grain, asking questions about the joinery, actually caring about the answers. The way those same hands fisted in my shirt when I kissed her, holding on like she needed the anchor.
I should have stopped myself, and remembered she was Callum's girlfriend. That he was my best friend. That some lines you don't cross no matter how badly you want to.
But she was so close. And she smelled so good. And when I leaned in, she didn't pull away. She met me halfway, rising on her toes to reach me, her mouth opening under mine like she'd been waiting for it too.
"Finally," she whispered against my lips.
For thirty seconds, the world made perfect sense.
Then she pushed me away, eyes wide with panic, and I knew I'd scared her. Knew I'd moved too fast, wanted too much, been too everything like I always am.
Now she's back. Wearing clothes that don't fit her curves right, curves I wanted to worship six years ago and still want to worship now. Looking at me like I'm dangerous. Running the moment I got too close.
Story of my life. Too much. Too intense. Too ready to give everything when people just want a little.
I climb back into my truck and sit there, engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. Through the pharmacy window, I can see her sitting in one of those plastic chairs, head down, shoulders hunched. Making herself small.
The way she used to do around Callum when she thought no one was watching.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth hurt.
I pull out my phone and open the pack group chat, thumbs moving fast.
Carlos: She ran from me. Literally ran. Like I was going to hurt her or something. We need to talk.
Sergio responds first:Where are you?
Carlos: Outside the pharmacy. She went to see Pedro. Looked terrified when she saw me. Did I do something wrong? I just said hi.
Nacho: I know she went to Pedro. Patricia texted me.
Of course she did. Patricia texts everyone about everything. The woman should work for the CIA.
Pedro: Just got out of my last appointment. Heading home.
Sergio: Pack meeting. Thirty minutes. Kitchen.
I stare at my phone, then at the pharmacy window where Jessica is still sitting with her head down.
I want to go back in there. Want to tell her I'm sorry for whatever I did that made her look at me like that. Want to explain that I've spent six years missing her laugh, the way she'd lean in close when I explained how a dovetail joint works, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the wedding designs she was working on with Sharon.
The way her hands felt against my chest. Small and perfect and right.
But she ran. And I can't chase someone who doesn't want to be caught. Learned that lesson the hard way when I was twelve and tried to befriend a stray cat. Sometimes people need space. Even when it kills you to give it to them.
I start the truck and pull away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, I see Jessica emerge from the pharmacy, prescription bag in hand. She looks both ways before walking, like she's checking for threats.
Or for me.
The thought makes my chest hurt worse.
