To Be Your Only

by Rae Kennedy

  He shakes his head and waves me off. “Nah, she wouldn’t be interested in me.”

  Lord, give me strength and please don’t send me any more clueless boys.

  “I can totally do it for you if you want. I’ll make it super easy.” I call out for Charlotte. Wes’s eyes go wide. “This will actually be great.”

  “I need to head out.” He backs away from the counter with an uneasy smile. “I’ll see you around.”

  I roll my eyes as he reaches for his hat. “Fine.”

  I watch him leave and finally focus on the little card that’s burning in my hand. As soon as he pulls away and my customer at table four pays her bill, I take my break and sneak out the back door.

  I rip open the envelope, eviscerating it into at least ten tiny pieces before I can slide the card out and read it.

  K-

  I’m sorry I licked your pussy and ruined our friendship.

  I’m here whenever you’re ready.

  -E

  It’s in his handwriting, which is good—I don’t think Shannon at the flower shop would have appreciated having to write that. It almost makes me laugh. I keep reading the words over and over. He’s sorry he licked my pussy. He wants to save our friendship. And he has no idea what I’m actually upset about.

  And now I’m tearing up again. Goddammit, what is this? I mean, yeah, I’ve cried over guys in the past, but usually only once, and I got over that shit real fast. I should talk to him, tell him what’s really going on, but I don’t think telling him I’ve caught feelings will help save our friendship either. And if the three motherfucking tears (seriously?) on my face right now are any indication, I won’t be able to tell him without crying. So I think that conversation will have to wait a bit longer.

  * * *

  I don’t work on Thursday. I mostly stay in bed. I sleep. I pick up my phone and start composing at least ten different texts to Eric and then promptly delete them. I replace the batteries in Chris Hemsworth but then just put him back amidst my underwear. Then I stare at my phone some more, not quite sure what I’m expecting to happen.

  Luckily, I work a double on Friday and we are so slammed I don’t have time to think about him much.

  I’m here whenever you’re ready.

  I said much.

  I'm glad when Saturday finally arrives and I can go visit Grandpa—that should keep me plenty distracted. Right. Except I have the whole drive by myself, alone in my car with my thoughts the whole time.

  I want things to go back to the way they were and just forget about the best-pussy-licking-of-my-life incident. But if I’m being truly honest with myself, what I really want is to be more than friends. Way more than friends. Some more amazing orgasms would be cool, too. But if I tell him that and he doesn’t feel the same, there’s no way we’ll be able to go back to being friends. At the same time, if I don’t tell him, if I don’t shoot my shot, there’s no chance of more happening either.

  My thoughts are all over the place. It’s too much, even for me. I don’t know what to do.

  “He’s having a...” The nurse at the front desk holds a polite smile as she tries to find the right words. “It’s not one of his better days. But maybe seeing you will help change that.”

  I take the guest badge and tread down the hall toward his room. I can’t believe it was only last week that Eric was here with me. I’d give almost anything for him to be holding my hand again.

  Grandpa is in bed. A thin, gray blanket covers him up to his armpits. Light from his small window gently highlights his wispy white hair—no haircut this week. His face is turned toward the window and he's still. He doesn’t move or acknowledge me in any way when I enter the room. I’d think he was asleep but his eyes are half open.

  “Hey, Pops. How’s it going?”

  He doesn’t move so I scoot the chair from the corner of the room to his bedside. I lightly touch his wrist. The tape holding down the IV in his hand appears to be pulling at his papery thin skin, which is blotched and purple around the tube.

  He still doesn’t move. So I talk. I try to stay cheery and tell him about Gracie, who is in the blissful honeymoon stage of a new relationship where you can’t keep your hands off each other. I tell him how I got two beautiful bouquets of flowers this week from Wes. I want to tell him the truth. But I don’t. Apparently I suck at that right now.

  After an hour and no change in his demeanor, I get up to leave. I give him a soft kiss on the cheek. They’ve been keeping him shaven, but he has a little bit of stubble.

  “I wish things were different,” I whisper to him. “I wish you were here. Really here.” I don’t realize I’m crying again until a tear falls to his pillow. “I miss you, Pops.”

  * * *

  I'm still an emotional wreck as I drive back into town. Like, what the fuck? I hate it. I need someone. Anyone.

  I’m pulling up the gravel drive to Gracie’s house in minutes, not even conscious of the decision. My car dings as the keys dangle in the ignition and I sit in silence. The big, white farmhouse lies in front of me. Its sprawling porch welcomes me at the same time it reminds me that I don’t really belong here.

  I throw my head back against my seat. “I wish you were here, Gracie.”

  Off to the left is the barn. I can’t see the cottage beyond, but I know it’s there. He’s probably there.

  I’m here whenever you’re ready.

  Am I ready?

  I don’t fucking know. I want to talk to Gracie. I want my best friend who never judges me and lets me go on and on about absolutely anything and always has the perfect response so I know she was listening.

  It’s early afternoon so she’s probably still asleep but I pull out my phone anyway. Maybe she’ll answer.

  I apparently didn’t check my phone before I left to visit Grandpa this morning because I have two missed calls and a voicemail from Gracie at three o’clock this morning. That’s weird. My gut settles and a wave a cool dread sinks through me.

  I hit play on the voicemail and Gracie’s voice comes through, quiet, a slight whistling wind muffles her voice. She’s outside. “Ky, please.” Her words are strangled. “Call me back as soon as you can. I need you.”

  I dial her back, my heart pounding, and twist the key in the ignition. I slam into reverse as the phone starts to ring.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Hello?” Gracie’s voice sounds weird over the phone, hoarse.

  “Gracie? I don’t know how I missed your call, I’m so sorry. Where are you? Are you in Chicago? I’m coming to you right now.” I glance at my dashboard. “I may have to get gas first but then I’ll be right there.”

  My tires screech to a halt as I come to the road and then, seeing no cross-traffic, I make a hard left.

  “I’m home.”

  I slam on the brakes. “You’re home? As in, at your parents’ house?”

  “Yeah. When you didn’t answer, I called my dad. He came and picked me up.”

  I clamp the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I shift into reverse again, doing an extremely awkward seven-point turn while trying not to let it slip.

  “Oh my god. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in, like two seconds.”

  “Ky, I didn’t get home until ten this morning. Will you come over when I wake up? I’m happy to see you, but I’ve hardly slept.”

  “Okay, sure, all right. Except, I’m already here. But you can totally sleep, I’ll just be super quiet and sit in the corner and watch you. Not in a creepy way, just in an ‘I miss you’ way. You won’t even know I'm there.”

  She laughs lightly on the other end with drawn out breaths. “It’s probably creepy either way, but yeah, you can come over and watch me sleep.”

  I take the stairs up to Gracie’s room two at a time.

  She’s sitting up in bed when I barge in, her blue eyes widening when she sees me. “Wow, you really were already here.”

  “It’s one of the few instances where I wasn’t exaggerating.”

  Gracie
gives me a small smile. Her long blonde hair is kinked on the left side, her eyelids droopy and puffy. I rush her and squeeze her in a hug.

  “Missed you, too,” she says in a sleepy voice.

  I pull back, studying her face. “Are you okay? Have you been crying? What happened?”

  Her smile disintegrates. “I’ll tell you all about it after I get some sleep. But basically, things were going really well and then everything fell apart. He ended it, said we were over and told me to go home.” Her chin starts to quiver and I crush her in another hug.

  “Don’t even think about him right now. Just get some rest and we’ll have a cheer-up party tonight, okay?”

  She rubs her eyes and nods. “Yeah. You’re the best, I love you so much.”

  She curls into a little ball on her bed and I lie next to her, listening for when her breathing finally evens out and slows. Then I sleep too.

  * * *

  We sit cross-legged on Gracie’s bed, surrounded by piles of junk food. We’ve got every category covered—we ordered pizza, there’s chips and pretzels and chocolate-covered pretzels. There’s milk chocolate, dark chocolate, chocolate with nuts, chocolate with peanut butter, chocolate with caramel. There’s chewy candy and hard candy and sour candy.

  I’m not the best at throwing a cheer-up party, but I can at least nail the menu.

  Gracie is much better at cheering up than me—maybe because she was an actual cheerleader all through junior high and high school. I tried out with her in seventh grade, but when she made the A team and I was put on C team, I quit. It’s probably a good thing she’s so much better than me, though. I’ve only had to throw her a couple cheer-up parties, whereas she had to do it almost every month in high school—every other week when Mason Fisher and I were on-again-off-again the entirety of fall semester junior year.

  “So, what type of cheer-up party are we having?” I ask. “The one where we talk about how horrible he is and how much better off without him you are?” I insisted on this one for her last break-up—that guy was a douchebag. “Or do we need to be careful not to say anything too bad about him in case you two ever get back together?” AKA, what we had to do for me and Mason. “Or, do we never even mention his name and act like he never existed?”

  Gracie taps the end of her nose to the last option as she manhandles a huge piece of dripping pepperoni pizza to her mouth with the other hand.

  We stuff ourselves on food and candy, then put on facemasks and paint each other’s toes. We put on old One Direction songs and sing along horribly at the top of our lungs—well, I sing horribly, Gracie has a beautiful singing voice.

  It’s almost two in the morning when we finally get into bed. So many nights growing up I’ve spent in this room, in this bed with Gracie, whispering under the sheets and giggling until way past bedtime.

  “Are you ready for the purge?” I whisper. It’s tradition to go through social media and unfollow, block, untag, and delete photos after a break-up.

  The moon glowing in through the window is just enough light for me to see her eyes widen as she sucks in a breath.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No. You’re right. I should.” She gets her phone from her nightstand and our little sheet fort is lit up from the screen. “I only have a few pictures of him.”

  She closes her eyes, pressing the phone to her chest and though she’s holding perfectly still, silent tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay. Keep them. Or send them to me and I’ll keep them for you as long as you want.”

  She nods. “I hate how much I miss him.”

  “I know.” I hug her again and she hiccups against my shoulder. My heart breaks for her. But my mind drifts to Eric. I miss him too. It’s only been days but I feel like I haven’t seen him in weeks.

  Gracie pulls back and takes a deep breath, her tears under control for the moment. “Here,” she whispers. “I’ll send them to you. Promise you won’t delete them unless I ask you to?”

  “I promise.”

  With a little whoosh the pictures are sent over. I open them and stare for a moment. He is definitely the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Wes is hot in a boy-next-door kind of way, but Colin—his hotness is otherworldly. He’s got the dark, menacing vibes—black hair, shadowed eyes, thick black lashes, and then those neck tattoos. But then he also has those pouty lips and blue eyes. I can’t decide if he’s more demon or angel.

  “I know we’re not supposed to be talking about him, but shit, girl. He’s beautiful.”

  She sighs. “I know.”

  “How was it? I mean your first time? Was he, um, attentive?”

  Gracie’s cheeks immediately turn red. “It was good. Amazing, actually. Everything I could have wished for—except for being interrupted at the end.”

  “Did he get you to...you know?”

  She nods, her entire face getting redder than I thought possible. “Twice.”

  “Were they like blips on the Richter scale, or full-blown earthquakes?”

  She looks me dead in the eye. “Earth-shattering.”

  “Gah, I'm so jealous. The only guys who’ve given me earth-shattering orgasms are named Chris and live in my underwear drawer.” And Eric. But I’m not going to tell her the best orgasm I’ve ever had was at the hands—er, mouth—of her brother. I’m not going to tell her about Eric at all, because, let’s face it, my little crush and subsequent rejection is nothing compared to the devastation she’s feeling right now.

  She smiles, even though her cheeks are still wet. “I may have to invest in one of those.”

  “Our birthdays are in less than two months. I’ll get you one. Wouldn’t want you developing carpal tunnel.”

  Gracie giggles. “Oh my god, Ky.”

  * * *

  I don’t know how I let her talk me into this. Actually, I do. Since I never told her about what happened between Eric and me, I had no logical reason to decline an invitation to her Sunday family dinner. She knows if I went home I’d just be eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich alone. Besides, I told her I’d stay the night with her again.

  As I follow Gracie down the stairs, the old wood boards creaking under our feet, her two young nephews are already running through the house, followed by Bev’s voice telling them to stay out of the kitchen. The low boom of Gracie’s dad’s laugh comes from the living room and some type of sports recap show plays in the background.

  Right as I step off the last stair into the foyer, the front door opens. Eric stands in the open doorway, the late afternoon sun silhouetting his broad shoulders. He has on jeans and a T-shirt, his hair wind-mussed.

  I freeze. Our eyes lock.

  “Eric!” Gracie runs to him and he rips his eyes away from me to smile at her as she leaps into his arms and wraps her legs around his waist.

  “Glad you’re home, Gracie Lou.” His lips are at her ear as he squeezes her but he’s looking at me over her shoulder with hard brown eyes.

  I still haven’t moved. I might be holding my breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with me as Gracie untangles herself from his hold and he sets her down.

  “Rosenbaum,” he says flatly.

  “Gallagher.” I try to sound equally as neutral, keeping my chin up.

  And of course, he’s sitting directly across from me at the dinner table. I try to ignore him but even when I’m not looking at him I can feel him there. Are his eyes on me? When I do look up from my plate it always seems to be at the exact moment he turns toward me and our eyes meet. But there’s no smiling or smirking, only the occasional clench of his jaw. And there’s no joking or talking. He even asks Gracie to pass him the salt even though the salt shaker is directly in front of me, not her.

  But I'm the one who said I wanted him to give me space, so I can’t be mad about it. It doesn’t stop me from wishing I’d been greeted with a hug, too, when he walked in the door. Or hoping he’ll make some sarcastic remark or dumb joke so I can roll my eyes at him. Or that he’ll smile
at me. Even if it’s one of those stupid lopsided grins that I hate that make me feel like he knows a secret I don’t. And it definitely does not stop me from thinking about how a week ago those lips were kissing me, and the memory of his tongue, and the feel of his head between my legs.

  He doesn’t say goodbye to me when he leaves, though I think he gives me the tiniest of nods after he hugs Gracie goodbye. Maybe I’m imagining it.

  Back in Gracie’s room, we’re bingeing more Netflix while sprawled on her bed—our chosen activity for most of the day. Her stomach rumbles.

  I shoot her a look. “Did you not eat at dinner?” I was too preoccupied with distracting thoughts about Eric at dinner to notice.

  “Um...”

  “Girl. You know how I feel about you not eating.” I should have been paying better attention at dinner. I know she tends to lose her appetite when she’s upset. “I’ll feed you like a baby bird if I have to.”

  “Ew, no!” But she’s smiling again.

  “You know I’ll do it.”

  “I know. I think I ate too much crap yesterday and I have a stomachache. And nothing sounds good anyway.”

  “What about ice cream? We could go get shakes?” Getting shakes was our late night routine every summer once we started driving.

  “Okay, I could do a shake.”

  We roll the windows down and turn up the music in my car, letting the warm summer night air whip through our hair as I drive to the diner. Gracie orders an Oreo shake, which only reminds me of Eric, and I get an orange creamsicle one. I get a large order of fries because why-the-fuck not?

  I smile to myself when Gracie digs into the bag and eats some fries in between sips of her milkshake on the way back.

  “Ky. I’m the worst.”

  “Give me some of those. And what do you mean?”

  She hands me a few hot, salty fries. “I mean I’ve been so preoccupied and mopey that I haven’t even asked you how things are going with you. I’m a horrible friend. How have things been going with Operation Get Wes’s Attention?”

  “Um.” I take a big pull of milkshake. It’s quite thick—we’re known for our thick shakes—so it takes a while to get it through my straw. “Nothing is with Wes.”