Every few seconds, he shoves his hand through his hair, leaving it messier than before. “Have you managed to get any work done?”
“I’m thinking.”
He calls me on my bluff. “You completed the same equation three times.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “And there’s a problem with that?”
He huffs out a laugh, soft and private—one that feels like it belongs only to me. He edges closer, giving up all pretense of studying.
His shoulder brushes mine as he reaches over to take my notebook. The current between us when his strong arm brushesagainst my forearm sends a ridiculous awareness skittering up my spine.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Thicker. Charged.
Something in my chest tilts as his eyes flick to my mouth, then back up, like he can’t quite decide whether to be bold or sweet.
“Brennan,” I murmur.
“Yeah?”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how to put this feeling into words without breaking it. So, I don’t. I lean in.
Our noses bump slightly, and I almost giggle. But then his hand comes up and cups the side of my face. His palm is warm—a steadying pressure that makes my heart settle.
When his mouth touches mine, it’s barely there. A soft, careful brush, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he presses too hard.
I never will.
Our kiss deepens—heated, a little uncoordinated, and perfect. His thumb moves against my cheek in a small, unconscious stroke that makes something bloom low and bright in my chest.
When we pull back, we don’t go far. Our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, neither of us quite ready to break whatever just shifted between us.
The paper shakes in my hand.
Eventually, I put everything back. Carefully, because despite the fact Brennan broke my heart, I want one day to be able to pull out this box to share it with my child when they have their heart broken for the first time. To show them that you can survive heartbreak.
Closing the lid, I head back into my closet to return it to its rightful place back onto the top shelf. This time, I shut the door firmly.
Some things are better left packed away, including memories.
Especially when the most painful ones unravel the years you spent trying to move forward without him.
7
BACKDOOR PLAY: PASS ACROSS THE CREASE TO A WEAK-SIDE ATTACKER
Tonight, the only sound I hear is the echo of her laugh. The only vision of her that comes to mind is her smiling at the barista. For years, whenever I pulled my memories of Amy out, every thought was how I blamed her for breaking us.
But didn’t you lead her to do just that?My subconscious taunts.
Guilt sneaks up on me out of nowhere, cutting through the years between us like they never existed. Hearing Amy’s laughter earlier at The Honeyed Hearth brought back a rush of memories I deliberately tried to forget or I’d have been consumed by them. I buried my hurt under layers of indifference because if I didn’t, I’d never have been able to move on.
But now that she’s in my orbit, feelings bubble up like they’d been waiting for permission to exist again.
I mutter, “Feckin’ dandy. Just what I need—a trip down memory lane.”
But tonight is the night it’s obviously happening.
I recall that moment when we met. My need to lock her down for a date. I recognized her as my other half. Knew I wanted her in my life forever. I wanted a love to mirror that of my parents.
