Maybe I’m just standing in her way.
Trish is talking, sitting way too close, her hand brushing my thigh like it’s an accident, even though I know it isn’t.
Gracie slides in on my other side. I can feel the heat of her body, close enough that my body reacts before my brain does. My heart does that tripping-over-itself thing. I go still. Not even daring to breathe.
On one side, Trish—obvious, easy, flirting like it’s a sport.
On the other, Gracie—quiet in a way that sets my nerves on edge.
I don’t know where to put my hands. Or my eyes.
I shift, trying to give everyone enough space without making it obvious.
It’s impossible.
Trish’s knee presses into mine. Gracie shifts, resting her arm along the back of the booth, close enough that I can feel the brush of her sleeve when she moves. Every inch of me goes alert,hyperfocused, like I’m standing between two open doors and choosing neither.
Gracie glances at Trish’s hand.
Just once.
Her mouth tightens. Not jealous exactly. Guarded. Like she’s putting something away before it can hurt her.
I’m panicking, sweating, unable to bear the tension.
“How’s the one-night stand thing going?” I blurt out, so loudly that half the table turns to look at us.
Gracie’s cheeks redden, and I instantly wish I could take it back.
“Yeah, Gracie.” Trish leans around me. She’s been drinking nonstop, enough that her words slur and her blinks are long, like it’s hard for her to focus. “Did you find a himbo yet? Someone to take homeand bang.”
Gracie swallows, stares at the table, and I can’t stand it, seeing her discomfort.
“You don’t have to answer that,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Her gaze flicks to mine and then over to Kirsten, who nods. “It’s okay. I—I’ve kinda abandoned that idea.”
The words hang there, fragile.
Abandoned.
Gracie looks up at me, her eyelashes catching the light and turning golden. “I guess I realized that’s not me.” Her breath hitches slightly. “I mean, no judgment to the people who do it, but, at least for now, that’s not who I want to be.”
My relief is instant and overwhelming. A smile tugs at my lips. I lean closer and whisper, “Good choice, Gracie Ann.”
She smiles at that old nickname, the one I used to tease her with.
A roll of her eyes. “Thanks,Oliver.”
She throws out my real first name, which is exactly right. We went through an entire summer, when we were twelve, calling each other Gracie Ann and Oliver. Heck, we still call each other those names sometimes.
I smile at the memory and bump her shoulder with mine. “You only call me that when you’re trying to sound serious.”
“And you only use my full name when you’re feeling smug,” she shoots back.
“Accurate.” I chuckle.
Her smile lingers a second longer than it should. Something quiet settles between us, easy, known, warm. Like slipping into a rhythm we never forget.
