Eventually, we break apart and head to the kitchen. I drop my textbook and notes on the counter before taking my place on my usual stool. I’ve claimed this particular one because it has the best view of shirtless Kane as he dances around the kitchen, somehow perfect at everything he does.
He turns to the fridge to grab what he needs for his famous pot pie. I always love watching Kane cook—the methodical way he chops vegetables, the silver knife glinting in the kitchen lights, the familiar rhythm almost enough to lull me to sleep. I’m competent enough to help, but he insists on taking care of everything himself so we can steal extra time talking together while he makes dinner.
While he works, he tells me about some of the drama that happened in his first couple of weeks shadowing a high school’s counselor, whom he’s taking over for next year. We already have the stress of being so close to graduation, and now Kane’s taking on extra stress from the students he works with. He went to the most underfunded school in the county to work, but he knew those kids needed him more. While I love how big his heart is, I still miss him as he takes on extra hours and adds an hour commute to his day.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when I’m pelted with flying carrots, and I glance up to find Kane bent over laughing. He has a shit-eating grin stretched over his face, small lines that only show when he’s really happy crinkling around his eyes. He clearly saw how lost in thought I was and wanted to distract me.
“Oh, so this is what we’re doing, huh?” I ask as I pick up some carrots from the wooden cutting board, ready to throw them back at him.
“Oh come on, Avery, don’t be a child and throw food. That’s our dinner,” he teases while backing up, throwing his hands up in an obvious surrender. I get down from my perch on the stool and slowly round the counter, hands full of ammo. He looks over at the cutting board, wondering how quickly he can get there and back before I begin my assault.
“Oh no, you don’t get to do that. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take the consequences!” I shout as I start to throw the carrots at Kane. He dodges them dramatically, like they’re actual missiles. The carrots ping off the refrigerator and upper white cabinets, scattering across the kitchen. Kane is doubled over, trying to protect his face and stomach from flying carrots as he grabs more and quickly throws them back at me.
We’re both laughing so hard we can barely breathe by the time the last few carrots scatter across the kitchen floor. Kane shakes his head at the mess, still grinning as he finally saunters over to me. His hands drift down to my waist, lingering there as he walks me backward before lifting me up and setting me onto the counter.
I automatically wrap my legs around him and settle my arms on his shoulders. For a few seconds we just stare at each other, catching our breath, before Kane says, “I loveyou, pretty girl. And I can’t imagine a time when that smile isn’t the single greatest part of my day.”
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. When he goes to pull away, I tighten my arms around him and deepen the kiss, fully lost in the feel of him and how I feel him harden against me. The world seems to melt away, and suddenly this is all that matters between us. His hands are firm around my waist as mine dive into his soft waves. His tongue strokes against mine, starting slowly before building the pace.
The kiss turns heated, all tongue and moans as we collide again and again. His hands are almost bruising my hips, and I feel the heat coil higher in my belly, painful with the need for him. All I want is to be closer.
“Your paper,” he murmurs against my mouth, though his hands don’t move from my body.
“What paper?” I moan back, pulling him to me as I deepen the kiss.
That’s all it takes. Dinner is all but forgotten as Kane quickly shuts off the stove before whisking me away to his room.
We giggle between kisses as we stumble inside. He lays me down gently on his bed, hovering over me and staring at me like the world begins and ends in this moment. The soft comforter lies underneath me, and I feel overheated in all the clothes between us.
“I don’t know what God I had to pray to deserve this life with you, but I know no matter what lifetime we find ourselves in, I will always find my way to you,” he whispers, looking deep into my eyes. The moment around us stills, words falling away as he worships me as if I’m the one he prays to.
CHAPTER ONE
avery
NOW
loml – Taylor Swift
The thing with first loves is they never truly leave you. They stitch themselves so deep in your very soul, that even when you’ve both moved on and the world barely remembers, you always will.
The first kiss, the first touch, the first heartbreak… They linger, marking you for life. The tears that were shed stain your soul. The music you consumed together late at night when the rest of the world was quiet becomes a ghost in your ears when those songs play in the grocery store, immediately taking you back in time to when you were young and in love. Those first loves created who you are and change you in ways you may never fully realize.
I met my first love back when I was naïve enough to think love was everything. Back when you could’ve told me anything would happen, except that I would lose Kane, and I could survive it. When our worlds were so consumed within each other, we barely saw much else. We found each other back when fairytales still felt possible and foreverdidn’t feel like it was an unattainable construct staring back at us. From eighteen to twenty-three, my whole world revolved around one other being.
This isn’t the first time the crushing weight of the phantom pain has threatened to drag me back under. The past month has been a blur of it, of getting myself up and moving because there’s nothing else to do. The never-ending haze my mind has been stuck in rears with a vengeance.
The edges of my vision get blurry as my brain begs to drift back to the past and the comfort it offers me, wanting to cocoon me in its arms. Half of my heart is walking around, existing outside of my body, and I find myself wondering day after day if I will ever get that part of me back.
A soft hand on my arm pulls me back into focus. I wipe the lone tear that escaped while I was lost in my thoughts. I smile at Morgan, a silent apology for zoning out on her.
Thelights of our local bar, The Grunge—named for the ‘90s grunge ambiance—are vibrant tonight, illuminating the bar top in a soft amber glow. Their locally famous Taco Tuesday has drawn in a bigger crowd lately, after word of their five-dollar margaritas and town-famous nachos got around, the place getting more crowded and boisterous as the night goes on. I’ve always found comfort in this place.
I stare at the half-empty strawberry margarita in front of me, its sugar rim thoroughly licked off and condensation dripping down the sides of the glass. The superior part of any good margarita is a sugar rim, salt nowhere to be seen with my sweet tooth. Myonlymargarita of the night, since I need to be at the shelter first thing tomorrow.
“C’mon Ave, you can’t really think prankinghim is the best idea right now,” Morgan says, giving me an accusatory look over the rim of her third margarita.
Morgan Belle is my best friend, though she’s so completely my opposite in every way. I look at her across from me at our four-person round table. Being complete opposites in looks and personality, you would never have thought we would be here today eight years later. Morgan has long blonde curls and dons a high-end designer wardrobe and perfectly applied makeup. She has an air ofdon’t fuck with me, but even with that, you can’t help but gravitate toward her. Her bubbly personality makes her shine in any room she’s in, striking you dumb when she turns those rays onto you.
