But I can tell he’s only half listening. His body is still rigid, his mind elsewhere.
I loosen my hold, giving him space. He untangles himself from me and slaps the T-shirt over his shoulder, pivoting toward the en suite bathroom.
He gets halfway before he falters. Teeters in place.
I hold my breath.
Not a second passes before he spins back around, grabs my wrist, and tugs me to him, crashing our mouths together. The shirt tumbles to the floor. The air is yanked from my lungs.
I cup his face with both hands, sinking into the kiss. His stubble tickles my chin, fingers dig into my cheeks. Our tongues dance and twine, his teeth nicking my bottom lip. Then he pulls away, skin flushed and eyes glazed.
His grip on me tightens, just for a second, before he lets out a sharp exhale and eases up. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Me neither.” I press my lips to his jaw, to the tip of his nose, swallowing down the weight of memories clawing up my throat. The screech of tires, the shatter of glass, the shrieking horn.
The blood.
His hands slip to my hips, grounding himself. Or maybe grounding me. “I’ll make you breakfast when I’m out.”
“Okay.”
Alex’s arm lifts, his thumb grazing my cheekbone and lingering. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When he disappears into the bathroom, I touch my fingertips to my puffy lips, still tingling from his kiss.
It wasn’t a lie.
I hope it never will be.
***
It’s the first Thursday of May, and the weather is a refreshing balm to my frazzled mind. The sun sits low in the sky, painting the remaining blue in a canvas of color, like a melted rainbow Popsicle. A light breeze dances across my skin, filling me with new life, the second wind I crave after a long day of taking orders, entertaining customers, and blocking out Alex’s endless tirade of pressure-infused wrath.
I love open mic nights at the café. Anyone with an instrument and a voice is invited to take the stage, to fill the room with lyrics and harmonies. It’s often an assortment of wannabe musicians, college girls looking for karaoke, and some newbies eager to get a taste of the spotlight.
It’s just me and Tag tonight, since Kenna is holed up in her apartment with the flu.
Entering the café, I stroll past what looks to be a father-daughter duo. A teenage girl is perched in a wheelchair, her coffee-dark hair framing a rosy-cheeked face. I send her a smile as I pass, and she returns it twofold.
But as I move closer to the familiar table in the back of the room and spot Chase, I notice there’s something different about him. He looks rattled, on edge. Like he’s just seen a ghost.
“Hey,” I greet him, his back to the table I just walked by. “Everything okay?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Can’t stay long, but I said I’d drop by.”
“Do you have plans?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he starts tapping his feet in opposite time, scratches at his scruff, heaves in a shaky breath. “Something like that.”
“Fill me in?” I plop down beside him and scoot the chair closer. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.”
My instincts prickle with worry. “Does this have to do with the no-context breakup you mentioned?” With ten years of being Kenna’s friend under my belt, I’ve basically taken a masterclass in post-breakup pep talks. Irving was the last one; now she’s already talking to a new guy.
“What? There was no breakup…” Frowning, he shakes his head, my words registering like cakey mud. “No, nothing like that. I just have somewhere to be.”
