Stella.
The day before she died, she shuffled down the stairs with a warm compress and collapsed beside me on the couch. Her temple fell to my shoulder, the heat pack plopped atop her head.
I wrapped an arm around her, drawing her in, unknowingly giving her the last moment of comfort she’d ever have.
The memory tightens my grip on Annie, my arms looping around her back, tugging her closer. My chin brushes her wisps of hair as she trembles with a devastation I can’t fully grasp.
All I know is that it’s because of him. The man who’s supposed to love her.
And in that moment, I want to strangle him.
My heart kicks harder when she nuzzles into my chest, her breath topsy-turvy, her sniffling muffled against the fabric of my dark Henley. Warm tears seep through, dampening my skin.
A telltale buzz fizzes in my blood. It’s been years since I’ve been this close to a woman. No sex, no fleeting intimacy, no vanilla musk clinging to my sheets.
I thought I was broken. Dead inside. Immune to the need for physical connection.
But I’m not.
And this is the wrong damn time and the wrong fucking girl to start figuring that out with.
“I’m sorry,” Annie mumbles, her lips hovering just above my galloping heart. “I don’t mean to fall apart like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I just…I want to pursue my dreams. Live large and free. I want to travel the world, experience bright lights and sweeping cities. But I also want to settle down one day, live simply, savor the little moments.” She inches back slightly, her eyes rimmed with red. “Alex says I can’t have both.”
“You can have both,” I say, releasing her, putting a much-needed distance between us. Then, without thinking it through, I add, “Maybe just not with him.”
Shit.
That was a massive overstep.
Number one rule of friendship: never give unsolicited relationship advice, especially when you’re the outside party with borderline selfish intentions.
Not my place. Not even fucking close.
Annie’s eyes widen to glistening spheres, burning under the string lights and the moon.
Panic surges through me.
I can’t tell if she’s about to slap me, storm inside, or if she’s having an ah-ha moment.
My muscles lock as I stand there, staring, trying to conjure up some sort of backpedaling, apologetic spiel.
The words don’t come.
An owl hoots from a faraway tree as branches shift and sway against the breeze. The air is heavy, thick, suffocating.
A dish crashes in the kitchen.
Annie nearly leaps out of her Mary Janes. She looks toward the house, eyes darting to the small, dusty window, where her brother stands at the sink, his face an unreadable mask.
But he saw.
The hug. The forbidden contact. The cloud of tension so tangible it might as well have a pulse and a mouthful of teeth.
She smooths out her sweater, her hands vanishing inside the sleeves. Her gaze draws back to me, just for a millisecond, before she swivels around and disappears inside the house. The sliding door claps shut, snapping me back to reality.
