“I know, but I?—”
“And you’re not really sorry, are you? Cause if you were, you wouldn’t call me Jelly.” ??
“Wait. What’s that got to do?—”
“Just hurry up and finish the table, big man.” She cut me off. “I’ve got other shit to do.”
I’m speechless.
“Right,” I mutter.
The air between us goes still. Just the soft scrape of screws and the slow drag of her joint.
Every now and then, I look up. She’s not even watching me, just staring into nothingness, smoke haloing her head.
And I realize… she remembers more than the kiss.
She rememberseverything.
And for the first time, I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
I force my focus on the table instead of her. Maybe the quicker I do this, the quicker we both can be released from this awkwardness. But unfortunately, it turns out I really do need her help.
“Can you hold this up?” I ask.
She gets up from the couch and does it without complaint or comment. The wood creaks a little between us, but she’s steady.
With her this close, I can smell her perfume or whatever that is.Cinnamon? Nutmeg? Maybe both.It’s sweet but smoky, and it’s fucking clouding up my head.
I go quiet for a while, trying to focus on the table, but my eyes wander down.
Bare feet.
Black nail polish.
A red dragon tattoo starts at her big toe and curls around her ankle, disappearing beneath the cuff of the moomoo. And her ankles—damn. Covered in chunky bracelets and beads that click softly every time she shifts.
It’s ridiculous how much detail I’m taking in. My brain’s betraying me, trying to memorize her all over again.
“Frankie,” I breathe out. I feel so…different. My head must be spinning from her scent and her nearness. “I’m so sorry I did that to you.”
Her hands still.
I’m caught off guard myself.
For a second, neither of us moves. I look up and find her gaze already on me.
Except she wasn’t looking at me with eyes at all. It’s a meadow. A big open field with nowhere to hide. And I could see the fog slowly rolling in.
“Drop it,” she says quietly.
“I can’t.” My voice comes out rough. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.
“Why?”
“I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore. I don’t want you to pretend you don’t know me.”
Her brows lift just a little. “What difference does it make?”
