There’s something in the way he says it.For you. Like he’s separate from whatever comes next.
“Come on.” He tips his head toward the hallway. “Let’s sit.”
I follow him to the formal living room, the one we never use. He flips on a lamp that casts everything in a warm glow, then moves to the record player in the corner.
“Seems fitting,” he says, pulling out an album. He has a vast collection, but I didn’t expect him to have much country music.
The opening notes ofWhiskey Sinfill the room, then Cash’s raspy voice, singing about wanting someone you can only have with whiskey on your lips.
Miles settles onto the small velvet sofa.
I sit beside him. The couch forces us closer than the sectional in the TV room would. Our thighs almost touch. I’m hyperaware of every inch separating us.
I take another sip, letting the whiskey roll over my tongue.
He takes a drink, throat working as he swallows.
I should say something.Anything. But every word that comes to mind feels too honest.
I turn and find him already looking at me.
Neither of us breaks the silence.
He lifts his glass to his mouth again. When he lowers it, there’s a drop of amber liquid caught at the corner of his lips.
“You’ve got something right here.” I reach out, my thumb brushing his jaw, tilting his face toward me.
He goes still.
Every reasonable thought—the leaving, the living together, the album, the uncertainty—my own voice telling me to be smart, be careful, don’t complicate this. All caution falls away. I’m so tired of standing on the edge of something and talking myself back from it.
I lean in with a smile, close enough to smell pine and whiskey, and touch my tongue to the corner of his lips.
The whiskey tastes sweeter off his skin.
Miles jerks back so fast his drink sloshes dangerously in his glass. His chest heaves, eyes flicking across my face.
The record keeps playing—Cash singingwhiskey sins, whiskey you—while Miles stares at me, not saying a word.
I force out a breath. The air between us feels muggy. Like a Nashville summer.
“I can’t.” His words come out rough. “Honey, Ican’t.”
The record crackles between tracks.
“What—” I start, then stop. “I’m sorry…” I’m not sure what’s happening, let alone why I’m the one saying sorry.
“Don’t.” He sets his glass on the coffee table with shaking hands. “Don’t apologize. This is?—”
He runs both hands through his hair. “Fuck. You just got big news, and I’m ruining it.”
“Just tell me what’s going on. I thought—” I stop.
WhatdidI think?
That the almost-kiss on the pond meant something. That the night I came home broken and he held me meant something. The way he looked at me when he spotted me in the stands, likehe never wanted me to leave. That I wasn’t the only one counting down days and dreading the number getting smaller.
He stares at his hands for a beat. Then he shakes his head. “You should call your mom. Tell her about Cash. She’ll be?—”
