I know he’s inside somewhere, probably cleaning up before retreating upstairs to his room.To the Little Dipper on his ceiling.
I tap the glass with my finger; the sound echoes on the other side. Before long, he wanders to the main door and pops it open for me. “What are you doing?” he asks,and I’mdying inside because those are the first words he’s said to me in twelve hours.
“I got a ride home,” I say, holding my tongue on the first bit.
“Right, Dungeons and Dragons night.” He nods. “How drunk are you?”
“Barely,” I say, and at least that was honest.
“You smell like powdered sugar,” he says when I slide past his chest and inside.
“Cosy made beignets, and I ate about four too many,” I admit.
“And you didn’t bring any home?” He scoffs, his tone teasing, but I’m stuck on thehomepart.
“You don’t know me at all.” I hold up a paper bag that’s full of them, and he gives me a look that vibrates down my spine.
“Can I have one?” He asks, politely.
“I don’t know, are you going to stop staring at me like you made a mistake?” I blurt, and his brow raises. When he doesn’t answer me, I only assume that it’s the truth. He regretted the kiss and me. I swallow roughly as he turns his back on me and wanders over to the music system beside the stage.
Soft music starts to play over the speakers as he moves through the room, flipping chairs up onto tables, before finding his way back to me. He takes the bag and sets it on the bar, taking my hand and spinning me in a circle gently.Just talk to me.
At first, the dance is stiff, the awkwardness that’s coming off me ruining whatever moment Brighton is trying to have, but eventually I give in to his arms and follow his lead.
“Did I make a mistake, Rhea?” he asks in that same expectant and commanding tone he always has. He wants to know if I think he did, and for the last twelve hours, the answer has changed about a hundred times. Because if the answer is yes, it’s a clean break. We can attempt to go back to being friends. I’ve pretended I’m fine in worse situations. But if the answer is no, it changes the entire dynamic of our relationship, and that’s terrifying.
We’re just friends.
Friends who kiss?
“What song is this?” My brows crumple.
Brighton inhales slowly, looking away from me for a second. “Peach Tree, by Ethan Regan, I think.”
I smile at the side of his face as he thinks about it. “I thought you didn’t listen to new music?” I whisper, and he looks back at me.
“Some annoying girl with big sad eyes told me I need to expand my musical horizons.” He smiles back, softer than ever.
“She sounds smart,” I respond.
“She can be,” Brighton hums, and I scowl at him. “She’s also stubborn, messy, and emotional.”
“You forgot high maintenance,” I add.
“And petty.” He spins me in another circle.
“Very,” I laugh.
“She has this bad habit of not answering questions when she thinks she’s going to hurt someone’s feelings,” Brighton notes. He brings me back to him, my back against his chest, and his hand splayed out over my stomach. “Or when she feels like the answer might cause trouble.”
I close my eyes and let him dance us around for another long moment.
“Did I ruin it?” His voice is more cautious than I’ve ever heard him be, and it stings like a papercut, causing me to angle my face up to his as we dance. “It felt impulsive,” he adds.
“It was.” Our faces are close again, and I can feel his breath on my face as he works through his own thoughts.
“Do you still want to be my friend?” he asks.
