Brody, I’m sorry.
Brody, I ‘m pretty sure I’m in love with you.
My words vanish like dust.
“I, uh…” I start, then choke on nothing.
His eyes harden. The tiny flicker of hope I thought I saw when he first opened the door is snuffed out, replaced by something tired and closed off.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, and starts to pull the door shut.
Nope. Absolutely not.
Panic surges through me so fast I move without thinking. I shove my hand out, catching the edge of the door before it closes, and push it back just enough to slip one foot over the threshold.
He stiffens. “Beck?—”
I don’t let him finish.
I lean in and kiss him.
It’s not a gentle or polite apology kind of kiss. It’s messy and desperate and a little too hard, all teeth and atonement and grief. For the briefest moment, I feel Brody melting into me, his mouthopening under mine, his hand fisting in the front of my coat like he’s going to drag me inside and slam the door shut behind us.
Then he shoves me. Hard.
I stumble back. My heel hits a weak spot on the porch step, the world tilts, and suddenly there’s a crack and my foot goes straight through the boards of the stairs.
My ankle twists and I go down on my ass in the front yard, one leg still half-caught in the broken step. An extremely dignified yelp tears out of my throat.
“Shit, Beck!” Brody scrambles off the porch, bare feet slapping the wood, and drops on to the grass beside me. His hands hover over my leg, my shoulders, my face. “Fuck, are you okay? Did you hit your head? Does your ankle—Don’t move. Fuck.”
Despite the sharp throb shooting up my calf, I’m absurdly pleased.
Because he’s touching me.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, trying to pull my foot free. The board scrapes my shin, and I wince but keep trying to free my foot from the hole I made in his porch. “I’m good. Totally fine.”
“Hold still,” he snaps, and somehow it still sounds gentle. “You’re gonna make it worse.”
With careful fingers, he pries the splintered wood apart enough for me to yank my leg out. He cradles my ankle in his big hands, turning it slightly, watching my face.
“Does that hurt?”
“No,” I lie, because I can tell he feels guilty that I stomped a hole in his house. It’s starting to throb, but I don’t want him to feelbad. Then again, if he feels sorry for me, maybe he’ll stay with me? I’d rather have him close and worried than standing in the doorway where I can’t reach him. “I’m good,” I say weakly.
He huffs, almost a laugh, then realizes his hands are still on me. His fingers loosen. He sits back a few inches, palms pressing into the dead winter grass to brace himself.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again, quieter. “Why are you here?”
“I needed to talk to you.” I scoot up onto my elbows, ignoring the way my ankle complains. “I couldn’t leave things like that. You don’t know?—”
“We don’t have anything to talk about, Beckett.” His jaw flexes. “I can’t do this.”
“I love you,” I blurt out.
His whole face changes.
He flinches, eyes going wide, features contorting into something raw and painful and furious. He looks like I slapped him.
