I run my hands through my hair and push it back from my face.
“Get a grip, asshole,” I mutter to my reflection.
My gaze drops to the ink reflected in the mirror, the black letters stark against my skin. Hope. The word sits there in bold, crooked letters. Permanent. Mocking.
For a moment, I just stare at it. At the irony of having that particular word on my body when hope is the one thing I learned a long time ago not to rely on.
A quiet laugh escapes me.
Hope.
Out of all the shit I could have put on my body, that is the word I chose. Fucking idiot.
I turn away from the mirror, grab a shirt off the rack, pull it on, and head toward the kitchen.
The coffee machine is ready. Lola programs it every afternoon. She always sets the timer so it brews automatically at 6:30 every morning.
I grab a cup and pour myself some coffee, then lean my hip against the counter and take a long sip, letting the heat burn down my throat.
I can’t stay here feeling this vulnerable shit. That’s why I don’t let people get close.
Footsteps sound from upstairs. I straighten up and lift my eyes toward the staircase.
I take another drink just as she appears.
Lola descends the stairs carrying that huge tote bag over her shoulder. That thing is ridiculous—big enough to carry half her life in it.
Baggy jeans hang low on her hips, loose and worn in a way that makes them look better than anything the girls at schoolspend hours squeezing into. She’s wearing one of those knitted sweaters again, cream-colored and soft-looking as hell. Her hair is pulled back into a long ponytail, and those nerdy glasses sit on her nose.
Christ, she is beautiful. Not the loud kind of beautiful that demands attention. She’s so incredibly beautiful it actually hurts to look at her. She has truly fucked me up.
When she turns her head and looks at me, my heart does this stupid freaking thing—a tiny stumble of beats that pisses me off the second it happens.
Those blue eyes lock with mine across the kitchen, gentle and warm behind her glasses.
“Morning,” she says.
“Hey.” It’s cold and flat, I know, but it’s exactly the way it needs to be.
I look away first, just as I take another sip of coffee and let the burn ground me. Because the second I stare at her for too long, my brain starts doing stupid shit. Like walking over there and backing her up against the wall.
Instead, I lean back against the counter and push every single one of those thoughts back to where they belong. Behind the wall. Locked the fuck down for good. The last thing I want to do is stand here acting like a lovesick idiot waiting for her to notice me.
She crosses the kitchen toward me, and before I can process what is happening, she wraps her arms around my waist.
Her cheek presses against my chest, right over my heart.
Fuck.
My arm wraps around her, pulling her closer even though I know I shouldn’t. I close my eyes,allowing myself this moment. Just this once. The feeling of her against me. The scent of her shampoo. How she fits perfectly beneath my chin, as if she were meant to be there, knowing this could be the last time Iget to touch her. The last moment, she lets me hold her before everything falls apart.
So I memorize it: the warmth of her body pressed against mine, and the way my chest tightens with something I refuse to name.
Then I let her go.
She heads straight for the coffee machine, dropping that ridiculous tote bag onto the chair beside the counter. She grabs a mug, pushing her glasses up her nose.
I watch her, probably longer than I should. The question lingers right there on the tip of my tongue. Why didn’t you come to my bed last night?
