by Ryan, Lexi
My stomach sours. “She shouldn’t have done that. I wanted to tell you myself.”
“But I wasn’t taking your calls.”
I look away. It hurts to remember those days. The grief of losing Frank to cancer and losing Shay to circumstance. The panic and fear of watching my daughter fight for her life.
“Hello, Shayleigh.”
I blink away my memories as Professor Douche steps up to the bench where Shay and I are sitting.
“George,” she says tightly. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just at your apartment. I wanted to check on you.” His gaze is all over her, and I want to punch him. This asshole is married, and he just went to her apartment. I’d bet my Laguna house he was going to try to talk her into bed while he was “checking” on her. “How are your revisions coming?”
She flinches, and I wonder if it’s worry about her dissertation or anger that she’s trying hard to keep off her face. “They’re fine. I’m almost done.”
“They need to be in by Monday.”
“Not a problem.”
His gaze shifts to me, and he chuckles, shaking his head before turning his eyes back to Shay. “Looks like you were right about him.”
She stiffens. “George—”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
George shrugs. “She said you only fuck her when it’s convenient for you. And here you are. I figured that was why she ended things, but she wouldn’t admit it.” He laughs again as he walks away. “You two enjoy yourselves.”
When I pull my eyes off the asshole hipster to look at Shay, she’s staring at the ground. “You told him that I only fuck you when it’s convenient for me?”
She closes her eyes. “He put words in my mouth. They might have felt true, but I didn’t say it.”
I flinch. They felt true. “You haven’t told him that you know about his wife, have you?”
“No,” she whispers. “I haven’t seen him and haven’t wanted to.” Standing, she tosses the remnants of her cone in the trash can then wraps her arms around herself and shivers. “Can you take me and Lilly back to my car? I want to go home.”
“What will you do if he shows up?” I’m not entitled to this jealousy—this anger. But I wield it anyway. “You said your heart’s not broken, but Shayleigh, if you could see what I see when you look at him—”
“I’m not heartbroken over him, Easton.” She swallows and her eyes brim with tears. “I’m heartbroken over what he made me by hiding his marriage. I haven’t even told his wife yet.” She presses the back of her hand to her mouth. “I’m trying to cope with the fact that I pushed away the man I . . .” She swallows. “I didn’t talk to you for years because I didn’t want to be the reason your daughter lost her father, but now I may very well be the reason this other little girl loses hers, and I didn’t even love him.”
She’s killing me. “Shay—”
“I can’t talk about it anymore tonight.”
I want to hold her, but every time I process her words, I hear the truth. I’m the root cause of this pain. “I pushed away the man I loved.” She loved me. She didn’t say the word, but I heard it anyway. Part of me has always known it, even if she never said it. Now it’s just a matter of finding out if I can earn that love again.
Easton
Scarlett picked up Abi and took her to Chicago for Easter weekend. They got a suite at the Four Seasons and are shopping and going to the aquarium. That leaves me to spend the weekend alone in Jackson Harbor until Abi comes home Sunday morning—though I’m not interested in spending it alone at all.
As I climb the stairs to Shay’s apartment, I feel like a teenage boy about to go on his first date. I grabbed pizza again, but I’m hoping this time I won’t have to give it to the neighbor. When I texted earlier, Shay said she’d be home and didn’t argue when I said I was going to swing by. Since I’m focusing on the little victories with her, that felt like a prize.
I shift the pizza box and knock with my free hand. Shay opens the door to her apartment wearing flannel sleep pants and a tank top with a picture of Shakespeare that says, “OMG. I literary can’t even.” Her hair’s piled in a messy bun on top of her head, and her makeup’s been washed away. She looks younger like this. More vulnerable. And I hate myself for every time I’ve hurt her.
“Nice shirt,” I say.
She looks down as if she’s forgotten what she’s wearing. “Thanks. Lilly gave it to me for Christmas.” She leans on the doorjamb and arches a brow. “What did you need?”
You. “I thought we could hang. Talk. Whatever. Abi’s with her mom for the weekend.”
She folds her arms. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to let you in here.”
“It’s a great idea. This is the kind of stuff friends do. But if you prefer, we can hang out in the corridor.” I grin, but inside, I’m a mess. If friends is all she can give me, then I’ll take it. From Shay, I’d live on the scraps if it meant I didn’t have to let her go. After what she said on Wednesday night about pushing me away for Abi’s sake, I feel lucky that she’ll talk to me at all.
“What if I just close the door?” I can tell she’s trying to keep a straight face, but her lips twitch.
“You know that eighties movie with John Cusack? Where he holds up the stereo outside her window? It’d be like that. But for friendship.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m so sure you’re going to pull a Say Anything to get me to talk to you.”
I give her my best cocky grin. “Test me.”
She stares at me for a long time as if she’s trying to decide if I’m bluffing. Hell, now that she’s doubting me, I kind of hope she makes me do it. I’ll have to go buy a stereo from Target, though. I hope they still sell those. Holding up an iPhone and Bluetooth speaker just doesn’t have the same appeal.
Stepping back, she opens the door wide and waves me in. “Come on, then.”
I step inside and right past her, as if I’ve been here a hundred times before. I keep walking until I’m on the other side of the small living room and reach the kitchen. I plop the pizza box on the counter and open it up. “I got your favorite. Pepperoni and jalapeno, and those cheese-stuffed breadsticks.”
When I turn, she’s on the opposite side of the kitchen island. “No, thanks.”
Well, shit. I probably should’ve asked about her food preferences too. I abandon the pizza and walk toward her. “Can I order you something else, then? Chinese? Thai? Wings?”
“I had oatmeal.”
“For dinner?”
She shrugs and tugs open her fridge. There’s not much in there—some sliced melon, cottage cheese, milk, lettuce, and a variety pack of Jackson Brews beer. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.” I pull a slice of pizza from the box and take a bite. I hate to eat in front of her, but I’m starved.
She grabs an IPA for me, but I notice she doesn’t get one for herself. She pops the lid off for me and hands it over. “That smells so good.” She closes her eyes and groans.
And now my dick’s hard. “It is. You should have a piece.”
She stares longingly at the box. “I don’t eat that stuff anymore.”
“Why not?”
She waves a hand over her body, as if this explains anything. “Because this is better. And I might be fully recovered, but greasy foods still remind me of my binge-then-starve days.”
I frown as I look her over. She was always self-conscious about her weight. And then sometime between Paris and when she came to my hotel room in Chicago, she’d thinned out. I remember being worried about how frail she looked. “You had an eating disorder.”
She laughs, but the sound is dark and cold. “Yeah. Between grasping for control when Dad was dying to trying to deal with lifelong insecurities about my body . . .” She shrugs.
“I never understood why you were so self-conscious.”
“I know.” She holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Intellectually, I know that you thought I was beautiful and whatever.”
“And whatever? I was head over heels for you just the way you were.” I hate the idea of her making herself sick.
“Does your family know?”
“Mom does. She’s the one who took me to the counselor after Dad died. She said her heart wouldn’t ever recover from losing Dad if she had to watch me waste away too. I asked her not to tell the boys, and she agreed. I’m all better now, though, so stop giving me that look.”
“But you still don’t eat pizza?” I take another bite and watch her consider how to answer this.
“Part of my recovery was identifying triggers for me—emotional triggers, food triggers. It’s not like I had a healthy relationship with food before I lost the weight. The anorexia was just a new manifestation of existing issues.” She shrugs. “So as I recovered, I had to deal with those issues and try to form new, healthy habits. I choose not to eat foods that make me feel angry with myself after. For whatever reason, I can drink a beer or have the occasional ice cream sundae without feeling like my life is spinning out of control, without feeling like food is some evil sin I’ve succumbed to again. But I associate pizza with . . .” She bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words in.
“With what?”
“Self-loathing?” She laughs, and I can tell it’s because she’s uncomfortable sharing that and not because she thinks anything’s funny.
“Does it bother you for me to eat in front of you?”
“Not at all. Seriously, I’ve come a long way. And I’ve learned to love my body through exercise. I love what it can do—how I feel after a long run or after squatting heavy weights.”
Bigger or frighteningly thin, she’s always been beautiful to me, but I have to admit the healthy curve of her glutes and the muscle in her shoulders look good on her. And the confident sway of her hips looks even better.
She shrugs. “I still have my moments, but I’m in a pretty healthy place.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Maybe we could run together someday. I enjoy it too.”
“I’m not like my brothers. I like to enjoy my workouts—not kill myself to compete.”
I’ve worked out with her brothers a few times now. They like to do CrossFit-style workouts and bust their asses to beat each other. As a lifelong competitor, I love that, but that’s not always what I’m looking for when I go to the gym. “I promise I won’t race you.” I glance around the kitchen as I finish my second slice of pizza. The space is small but tidy. There’s a stack of books beside her laptop on the table. “Were you working?”
She nods. “I just finished up the last of my revisions and sent my final dissertation off to my committee.”
“That’s incredible. Why aren’t you out celebrating?”
She snorts. “A night at home with no work is my idea of a celebration. And anyway, nothing’s official until after my defense.”
“But your committee’s read it at this point, right?”
“Yeah, they’ve read pieces of it along the way and given me feedback. George has read everything except my most recent revisions.”
“Then you should be fine. Right?”
She wraps her arms around herself and seems to shrink. “Assuming George doesn’t hold it against me when I tell his wife he slept with me.”
Well, shit. “You think he will? Do you think you should wait?”
“If I wait, I’m only doing it to protect myself, and that feels wrong. I should never have slept with him to begin with. I might not have known he was married, but I went to bed with him when he was the chair of my committee. This is part of that fallout, like it or not, and I can’t wait to tell a woman her husband is unfaithful just because it’s inconvenient to me.” She straightens a stack of papers on the counter. “Knowing and not telling her makes me complicit.”
“What happens if George holds it against you? What if he doesn’t . . . pass your dissertation or whatever?”
“Then I don’t get my PhD, and I’m suddenly under-qualified for all the jobs I’ve been interviewing for.”
Jobs that will take her away from Jackson Harbor. I close up the pizza box while I consider this. Fuck. I’m so selfish. I don’t want her to leave, but if that’s what she wants . . . “Did you ever email that agent?”
She ducks her head, and I already know the answer before she says, “Not yet.”
I grab a napkin and wipe off my hands. “Why not?”
She studies the stack of papers and straightens it again. “Because reading and writing fiction has always been my safe place. The stories I read as a kid got me through high school when I thought the size of my body made me less important than skinnier girls. And writing got me through college—when I was so stressed, it was there to help me unwind.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “It was there to help me work through losing you. Both times.”
“It’ll still be that, won’t it? Even if you try to make a go of it?”
She swallows and cuts her eyes away. “There’s a really good chance I’m not good enough. Most people aren’t.”
I cross the small kitchen and take her chin in my hand, guiding her to meet my eyes. “I believe in you.”
“You haven’t even read my stuff.”
I shrug. “I’d love to, if you wanted me to. But even without reading, I have faith that you can tell an amazing story. You grew up with a book in one hand and a pencil in the other. At this point, it’s probably written into your DNA.”
She studies my face and then her gaze shifts from my eyes to my mouth, and the energy in the room changes. The tension between us becomes a palpable thing.
“If we weren’t just friends,” I say softly, “this is when I’d kiss you.”
Her breath catches. “Is it?”
“Yeah, but that would only be the beginning. Once I tasted you, I’d want more, and I’d end up lifting you onto the counter so you could wrap your legs around me.” I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and skim my fingertips down the side of her neck. “Then I’d kiss you here because I know how much you like it.”
Her lips part and her pupils dilate. “You were always good at figuring out what I like.”
“Because figuring out what turns you on turns me on. But once I started tasting you, I’d be greedy for more, and I’d end up with my face between your legs, licking you until you were begging me to fuck you.”
Her chest expands on a ragged inhale. “But we are just friends.”
For now. Nodding, I skim a finger over her bottom lip. “I’m gonna be the best fucking friend you’ve ever had, Shayleigh Jackson.”
“Hmm. I guess that remains to be seen.”
I allow myself one last touch before dropping my hand and stepping back to give her the space she needs. “Well, it’s Friday night and your best friend is here to celebrate your completed dissertation. What do we do next?” I smile to cover the truth that I’m terrified she’s going to ask me to leave.
She looks to the living room and then back to me. “Before you got here, I was about to watch a movie. Do you want to watch it with me?”
I grin. Little victories. “Sounds good. What are you watching?”
“The Princess Bride. It’s one of my comfort movies. Is that okay? If not, we can—”
“It’s great.” She could tell me she planned to watch a documentary on drying paint, and I’d be game. I doubt I’ll be able to keep my attention on the screen anyway. I’m just glad to be spending time with Shay.
We both sit on the couch, keeping a friend-appropriate distance between us, and she pulls her feet up under her as she starts the movie.
I watch her posture go looser and looser and her eyes get heavy. We’re not even thirty minutes in when she falls asleep. She shifts in her sleep and leans against me, using my arm as a pillow. Her neck’s at an awkward angle, and her body’s torqued. I hate to imagine how knotted her neck will be if she stays like this long, so I grab a pillow, put it in my lap, and guide her to rest her head on it.
Then, like any friend would, I
spend the rest of the movie watching her sleep. Totally reasonable friend behavior.
After the credits roll, the TV cycles into a screensaver, and the sudden quiet startles her awake. She blinks up at me. “East?”
“Hey.”
“Have I been sleeping long?”
“Movie’s over.”
She rubs her eyes but doesn’t jerk away from me, so I’ll consider that a win too. Slowly enough so she can stop me if she wants to, I cup her face in one hand and trace the line of her jaw and the shell of her ear.
“Was it as good as the first dozen times you saw it?” she asks sleepily.
“I enjoyed every minute,” I say, though I didn’t waste a minute looking at the screen once she was sleeping in my lap. She stretches her arms overhead, arching her back, and my gaze snags on her hard nipples pressed against the image on her thin T-shirt. There’s a real possibility I’ll get a semi from the sight of Shakespeare’s face from here on out, and that’s just screwed up.
“I should go to bed,” she says.
“If you want.”
Silence pulses around us, thick with sexual tension. “And you should probably leave.”
“If you want me to.”
“I don’t,” she whispers.
I take that as my green light and hold her gaze as I skim my hand down her neck, across the swell of her breasts and the peak of each nipple. She leans into my hand and moans softly at the light friction.
“I can’t give you anything but friendship right now,” she says, even as she leans into my touch.
“I’ll take it.”
“We really could be great friends.”
I roll her nipple under my thumb. “The best.”
“We should do that, then.” She gasps when I pinch her opposite nipple. “Is this breaking the rules?”
“Only if you say it is.” I trail my fingers between her breasts and over her stomach, slipping them beneath the waistband of her flannel pants. “What do you say? Is this allowed?”
She lifts her hips off the couch. An invitation.
I stroke back and forth beneath the elastic and circle her navel with my thumb. “This is your call, Shayleigh. You make the rules.”
