A knock on the door stops me dead in my tracks.
Holy shit. Okay. Don’t fuck this up.
I inhale a shaky breath, and when I open the door I damn near fall to my knees.
The backlighting from the porch light gives her a sort of angelic glow–her waist-length blonde waves looking almost fluid, like molten gold. Even in a simple cable knitsweater and jeans, she blows everyone else clear out of the water.
No one else should be allowed to wear cornflower blue again–Eleanor should have exclusive rights to it.
I’m trying not to ogle like a caveman, but I can’t help it when I rake my eyes down her body. She’s far from the sassy little sprite I met freshman year. Her sweater clings to her figure, showing off the body she’s grown into. When I drag my eyes back up to her face and look into those perfect blue eyes, I nearly gasp audibly. I would happily dive deep into those oceans and never resurface.
There’s a twinge in my chest when I notice they don’t sparkle as bright as they used to.
What did he do to you, darlin’?
The lips usually reserved for some sharp, witty comment–the ones I’ve wanted to kiss since the day I met her–part silently, eyes going wide at my nonexistent attempt to hide the way I drink in her presence. Without a word, I step back and shamelessly stare at the way her jeans hug what have to be the most perfect hips to ever exist. I can’t begin to fathom what her ass looks like in these Levi’s. Everything in me wants to pull her close and let my hands roam over every slope and curve.
She came here for company, not so you can maul her like a grizzly bear, you jackass.
Clearing my throat, I break the awkward silence by asking if she wants to go downstairs.
“Where else would we go?” she asks, one of her eyebrows lifting, the smallest of smirks fighting to shine through. She turns and heads downstairs, like no time has passed at all–like she never stopped coming over on Friday nights.
Like David never opened his stupid mouth. Like I didn’t fuck everything up before I even got a chance to start something.
I wish I could say everything feels instantly back to normal, but it’s hard to pretend when every second without her has been agony.
I follow closely behind, treading lightly like one wrong move might spook her. I’m barely breathing with the fear that I might send her bolting again—not just from my house, but from my life.
I nearly crash into her when she stops abruptly at the bottom of the stairs. At first I think maybe she’s seen a bug or something, but once I step around her and get a clear look at her face, I notice her eyes darting back and forth between the couch and the chair.
She doesn’t know where to sit anymore.
Trying to make the decision easier for her without actually addressing the giant 2-years-of-silence sized elephantin the room, I take a seat on the couch, leaving the chair open for her.
There’s no need to point out that no one has sat in that chair since she stopped coming around.
She looks at the chair almost nervously, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. I have the sudden urge to launch myself off this couch and see what it would feel like ifIwas the one biting that lip.
The sudden flare of heat is doused almost instantly when I notice the flicker of hurt in her eyes. I’ve had to stare at that chair daily, but this is her first time back in this room since the bet. I wish I had any idea what might be going through her head right now. I rub my chest, trying to soothe the sharp pain that always comes when I remember how badly I hurt her.
She turns away from the armchair and takes the seat on the opposite end of the couch, crossing her legs and sitting sideways to face me.
I angle my body to mirror hers, and for a moment we just look at each other, neither one of us wanting to be the one to break eye contact first.
“Um, how have you been?” she asks awkwardly.
“I’m fine, darlin’,” I say, avoiding the truth. “But tell me what happened with you.”
“It’s kind of a lot,” she says, dropping her gaze to her hands, wringing them nervously.
“I’ve got all the time in the world for you, Eleanor.”
With a deep, shuddering breath, she pours out what’s happened the last few weeks, months, years. I didn’t think the guilt could sink any deeper, but it turns out I wasn’t anywhere close to rock bottom.
When she tells me about that shithead Bennett, I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket so she doesn’t see the way my fists clench. If I ever see this clown in public, I don’t know how I’ll hold back from knocking him straight on his ass.
She tells me about the way she’s isolated herself from her mom and even from Abby, and an ache that reaches the very depths of my soul is unbearable. I did this. If none of this had happened, I’d never have let her spend her birthday alone. She wouldn’t be this lonely. My beautiful, bright girl has dimmed because I was reckless and stupid.
