I look at her, really look at her, and wonder if she’s ever thought about what it would’ve been like if things were different. If we hadn’t kissed on the beach that day, if I hadn’t broken my back days later. Overnight she became the girl whose new boyfriend was in the ICU, fighting to hold on to his life.
What choice did she have?
What choice did I have?
I want to reach out, to touch her hand, to find some reassurance that we’re still solid, still us. But my hands stay at my sides, clenched into fists, holding back the words that would unravel everything.
“We’ll figure it out,” she repeats, softer this time.
I nod, but my chest tightens. We’ve built our relationship on the foundation of avoidance, and I’m starting to feel the cracks.
Whatever Tate and Lili are talking about cuts off abruptly when I enter the back room. They aren’t doing inventory or anything else that I can see.
“Eryn take off?” Tate, for once, doesn’t have a snack, and he looks awkward, unsure what to do with his hands.
“Yeah. She said she’s making orange-flavored morning buns and she’ll save some for us if we all want to swing by at lunch.”
Lili looks pained hearing this, but Tate just scoffs.
“Wow, are you the luckiest—” But then he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Never mind. I think you know exactly what you are right now.”
Yeah, I do.
He starts backing toward the door. “Guess I gotta go do the things.”
“What things?” Lili asks, her voice edged with something close to panic at the prospect of being left alone with me.
“You know, the things. I don’t just walk around here looking pretty.”
I hold the door for him.
“Right. So, I’ll see you twonightowls”—he pushes the word through his teeth as he holds my gaze—“for buns at noon?”
Lili doesn’t respond, but she’ll go. I’m not letting her skulk around, blaming herself for something that was more my fault than hers.
“Buns at noon,” I say.
And then it’s just me and Lili again. She pretends to stack books on the table, her movements too deliberate, too staged. I watch, giving her a minute to drop the act and face me, which, thankfully, she does.
Slamming a final book down, she squares her shoulders. “Okay, fine. You’re mad.”
“I never said I was mad.”
She snorts. “Well, you usually are, so it’s a fair guess.”
I stare at her, taking in her appearance for the first time this morning. Her lips are extra red from how much she’s been biting them, and her hair has tumbled loose from the hasty braid she pulled it back in while we were driving here. She looks like she just woke up in the best possible way, and after last night, I know exactly how soft her skin is.
Unlike her, I was still awake, barely, but enough to feel it when her head gently settled onto my shoulder and her tablet slipped from her hands. And when she curled into me, I was aware of wrapping my arm around her. I only meant to hold her for a moment. I even rationalized it by telling myself that I could more easily wake her if I was holding her. I was still rationalizing when I fell asleep too.
So, no, I wasn’t mad last night, and looking at her now, I’m not sure I can summon anything close to that emotion. But Ishouldbe mad at myself. Instead, I’m thinking about how close we were, how easily we fit together. And how wrong it feels to want that again.
“You don’t have to say it,” she continues. “I know you’re mad that I steamrolled your apology out there and stole your chance to fall on your sword. And you know what? I’m not sorry for doing it, because thanks to me, you still have a girlfriend.”
“And that’s what you want?”
I don’t know who is more surprised by that question, me or her. I wasn’t planning on asking it, but now that it’s out there I know I won’t take it back.
She opens and closes her mouth a couple of times. And then I catch the faintest hint of fear in her face. “Wren.” That’s all she says, but it’s enough to shock me back into reality.
