She clears her throat, turning her head to look back at her front door briefly, and then at me again. Her thumb comes up topoint at it in this adorable little sideways hitch, like she’s being pulled that way. “It’s my last day with Spencer before his season kicks off. I, uh, kinda gotta go.”
She kicks at the ground nervously for a minute, before leaning in to give me the fastest hug of my life. But it fills me with more hope than any other touch I’ve ever received, including that handshake that sealed the deal on my first starring role.
“I want to believe you,” she says quietly. “And I’m sorry things have been so hard for you. I don’t like being away from you either.” She looks like the admittance cost her something to voice aloud. “But I’m not going to be treated like I’m here just for your amusement, Aaron. I don’t know what came over you recently, but I miss my best friend. The one who would never belittle me, or try to cop a feel—especially in front of my boyfriend—” her glare hardens, “or fuck with my heart. That’s who I have room for in my life. Okay?”
Her earnest eyes meet mine, and my Adam’s apple bobs as I swallow through my discomfort, my embarrassment at my behavior lately. I nod once. “I want him back, too.” I admit, matching her spell of sincere honesty.
“Maybe he can text me tomorrow,” she says softly, nearly a whisper, as she steps back toward the house. Her hand reaches behind her for the knob, and she opens the door backward deftly, stepping up to cross the threshold. Her solemn eyes are the last thing I see before she ever so quietly closes the door in my face.
Tomorrow. I can make it until tomorrow.
TWENTY-TWO
GEMMA
The Kid
Knock, knock
Now you think that’s a cheesy knock-knock joke to cheer me up, or get me to at least answer him, right? No. I know my best friend, and I know the song he’s quoting.
Panic starts to build in the bottom of my stomach, causing it to drop into my lower intestines and fight for space there, a very uncomfortable sensation overall. I know I said he could text me today, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him yet. Not sure I trust my heart around him again yet. I hope for the best, and pretend it’s a knock-knock joke, instead of the lyric I know it is.
Me
Who’s there?
The next three messages ding on my phone in rapid succession, before I can respond to a single one, and I know what’s coming before they even come in.
Don’t try to keep me out
You made me a promise and I’m here to call you out on it
Don’t make a liar out of both of us
Sighing heavily, I glance down at myself to at least see if I’m a quarter decent, and I guess this new look and wardrobe is paying off, ’cause as I pass the mirror in the foyer hallway, I don’t even look like I’ve been bumming around the house, living on Cheetos and cheap wine, consuming my feelings ever since the disastrous double date two nights ago.
That balayage I let the hairdresser have free rein with is really doing me a solid. I dunno the science behind it, but between that and the long, shaggy bob she gave me, it’s making my face look like it has anglesandsoftness, and I’m pretty sure she’s a magician. I didn’t bother putting much makeup on today, the library is closed on Sundays and even if I’m trying this chic thing most days, today is the Lord’s day and surely He didn’t invent makeup until WAY later, right?
There’s no helping the comfy leggings I’m wearing, but at least they make my ass look fire (so says Spencer, at least, but he’s a little biased). The cream sweater is soft as shit, loose on my gangly frame and it kinda falls off one shoulder, which looks cuter than it feels, but whatever.
All in all, I don’t have a good enough excuse to not answer my door right now. I’m close enough to people-able and I don’t have another way out of this on the tip of my tongue.
Dammit.
I saidtext, Aaron. Not fucking show up here. Again.
Apparently the sixteen seconds it took between getting his texts, walking from the desk in the back of my living space to the foyer, making sure I didn’t look like a yeti and putting my hand on the knob to open the front door was too much for thiskid, because that’s precisely when the banging starts. It’s not the pounding of a fist, like it was yesterday morning, but more the slamming of a random body part into the door, like maybe an elbow or a knee. It sounds clunky, and the whole door shakes.
“Gem!” His voice has gotten deeper in recent years, and the timbre of it is something I could fall asleep listening to every single night. It gives me chills, but it’s soothing, and somehow spikes my pulse all at once. Hearing it this loud, from right on the other side of the door though? A little much.
Yanking on the brown wooden door, I swing it open, in toward me, and there he is. The same face that’s in every one of my favorite memories, my longtime fantasies (though lately, those have been admittedly a littlestabbierthan they were before). His irritatingly handsome face (one only he could pull off) looks relieved when he realizes the door isn’t going to remain shut in his face. The fact that he isn’t just using his key to come in brings me my own rush of relief, because it means he’s taking my feelings seriously, and granting me the space and respect I asked for, at least to some extent.
It becomes apparent why he wasn’t knocking like a normal person when my eyes roam down his toned frame to his hands, which are carrying two paper grocery bags in each, and all four look like they’re absolutelyburstingwith Lord knows what. I wanna know what, damn me.
My face must look unimpressed, even though I’m more than curious as to what he’s brought, because his expression softens.
“It’s Sunday night,” is all he says, and I can’t argue that point. Despite all the reasons I should, something inside of me just won’t combat the need for us to return to our version of normal. Stepping aside to allow him through the doorway, he trundles in, arms full.
