I shake my head. I don’t like any of those things; I just know she does.
“I ran to the store yesterday. It’s no big deal.”
She tilts her head, revealing a glimpse of the tattoo behind her ear. The first tattoo I ever gave her, stars connected by lines that form the shape of the Libra constellation. My sun sign, and the complement to the tattoo I have on my wrist.
“I don’t want a handout from you, August,” Elena mutters, snagging a teabag and shutting the pantry.
“Interesting, considering you show up on my doorstep whenever you need something.”
She gives me those pouty lips again, and I hate the way the disdain on her face makes me half-hard. “I can get my own groceries.”
“I mean…you’re writing, right? Figured you’d want your favorite sustenance.” My tone invites challenge. We all know damn well Elena isn’t writing a goddamn thing.
I know her brothers mean best when they care for her the way they have been, and for a while, that might’ve made sense. Only I can relate to the depths in which my brother’s death affected us both, and sometimes I’m not even sure I understand how heavy it weighs on her, even after all these years.
But I also know that Elena doesn’t respond well to soft love. She needs to be pushed. She needs her intensity, stubbornness, and fierceness to be matched. She needs to be challenged, because that unbreakable will to rebel and land on top is whatpropels her forward, and the last four years of coddling have done nothing but hurt her more.
I’ll fill my house with her favorite writing snacks, I’ll charge her rent, and make her feel compelled to get her ass out of bed every day and work or write or do anything at all. I don’t even know why I feel the need. Part of me is convinced I should yearn to let her rot, but the broken look on her face that night she showed up at my doorstep, the fear in her eyes when she walked into my business on that date—hurt more than any of the pain she’s ever caused me.
“I’m taking a break,” she murmurs without facing me, eyes glued to the kettle like she’s willing the water to boil.
“How do you intend on paying rent?”
That gets her to turn around, frowning at me. “Why the fuck does it matter so long as I pay it on time?”
“You shouldn’t stop writing.”
The kettle screams, giving voice to the tension in this room. Elena ignores me as she flips the burner off and fills her mug. “Why do you care about this?” she finally asks, leaning against the counter, facing me as she brings the tea to her lips and blows on it, her eyes on mine.
My cock jumps.
“Why’d you leave?”
Her features turn solemn, and I have no idea why the fuck I let the question leave my mouth. Her eyes darken with something like torment, a fitting description to the sensation inside my chest.
I want to blame her so badly. I want to hate her. It should be easy. I have valid reasons. But when her face twists with agony and morphs into something far too close to regret, I’m left conflicted.
“It was what we both deserved,” she whispers. Without another word, Elena pushes off the counter, steaming mug inhand, and walks past me without a second glance. I stand still, listening to her ascend the stairs, the silence of the late night taking over when the bedroom door at the end of the hall clicks shut.
I’ve spent four years believing Elena placed the blame for my brother’s death on my shoulders—because I left Zach alone on that beach to go looking for her. I chose her over my brother that day—I’ve chosen her over everyone else. Always. I hated her for it. Sometimes, I still do. It destroyed me to carry that guilt alone, but the look on her face just now, the hollowed and haunted whispered words, makes me wonder if maybe I haven’t been the only one carrying this load. Maybe it’s so heavy it’s crushed us both, and we’re so suffocated by it, we’ve failed to see the other beneath the rubble.
12
VICE
“WHERE’S MY LOVE” - SYML
I checkthe time on my phone. It reads 7:02 a.m., perfect timing as I pour the steaming milk into a glass filled halfway with equal parts espresso and chai tea, topping it with two pumps of vanilla, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a drizzle of caramel syrup.
I wipe the nozzle with my towel, smiling at my work. A flight of four different coffee concoctions sits in front of me, ready for Dahlia to taste—just as I hear her begin to unlock the front door. I can make out her form through the glass windows, the barely risen sun in the distance accenting her confused features.
She hesitates as she opens the front door, peeking her head inside and glancing around, no doubt curious as to why the lights behind the front counter are on. “Um…hello?”
“Hi. It’s me.” I step out from behind the counter, making myself visible. “Elena.”
“Oh.” She breathes a sigh of relief, entering the building and shutting the door behind her. “What the heck are you doing here this early on a Tuesday?”
Dahlia’s shoulder-length blond hair sways as she shrugs off her jacket, tossing it onto one of the tables beneath the frontwindow. I walk back behind the counter and slide the flight I made across it so that it reaches where she’s standing at the end.
