“That’s the right answer, Boston Black!” she exclaims, hauling herself forward to kiss me.
And I know that I’m ruining my relationship with my best friend every single time our lips touch. I know that I’m going to have to keep lying for days, weeks, months, because of howbadly I want her and how selfish I am. I know I’m destroying the people around me by agreeing to this.
We are a bomb, set to go off at the slightest of inconveniences.
But I also know that I’m not stopping, and I’ll be happy to let this be the thing that takes me out.
september
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
ariana
“You askedfor a charcuterie board and I’m making you one, but you have to save some grapes and cheese for the actual board, otherwise what is the point?” Boston asks, stopping to scold me while shirtless. He’s holding a little knife, his hat backward on his head. He’s a snack making me a snack.
I was too busy staring at the hair on his chest and stomach that leads to one of my favourite parts of him. I pop another grape into my mouth, snapping my eyes up to his face. He raises his brows, so I just smile.
“It’s a drive-thru charcuterie board. It’s a new thing. I eat as you cut.”
He rolls those green eyes, his lips pulling upward at the absurdity of my comments. I got here early so I can help around the farm. We fed the animals, and I spent far too much time with the cows because they’ve become my favourite. I never realized how cute cows can be. We played with the dogs in the field for a bit, too. After lunch, he’s going to let me visit the baby goats. He says they like music. We haven’t spent all too much time out on his land, but I’ve learned quickly that I love his way of life. It’s simple, and something about that is endearing.
I’ve been here multiple times a week since August. It’s now mid-September, and we're still doing this. My brother thinks I’m back to dating around town, and I let him think that’s the truth. As long as I tell him when I’m staying out, he doesn’t ask questions. He just grimaces and waves me off.
Lately, Boston and I have been doing much more than just hooking up. We watch TV, we do farm work, we talk, and talk, and talk. Sometimes I spend the night, sometimes I don’t. It’s easier that way. If I were sleeping out every single night, Carter would start asking questions. I’m doing my school work and actively working on myself, so he’s stopped worrying as much.
Boston picked me up today once I was done studying at the coffee shop. It’s a nightmare to have to hide this thing between us with sneaky pick-ups and drop-offs, but it’s nice not to have to drive everywhere. He’s become my chariot who always awaits. I was growing tired of making the trek here and back so frequently, especially late at night. I much prefer being a passenger, especially if he’s driving.
He retrieves a jar of olives from the fridge. I perk up. “My favourite!”
He pops open the jar and looks at me. “I know. That's why I bought them.”
“Really?”
“I’ve seen you beg bartenders to pour them into your martini like sprinkles. I’ve gathered that you like olives, Ari.”
“Perceptive,” I say, impressed.
“Bare minimum,” he corrects with a hard look, a reminder that if I keep dating losers, I will keep being with men who don’t care or notice my preferences. Like losers.
“You look very hot when you make me food.”
He snorts, scattering the olives on the board in a stylistic line. This man could have a job as a charcuterie maker. It’s like an art. “You look very hot when you do anything.”
I press a hand to my chest, my jaw dropping open. “Boston Black, youflatterme.”
He rolls his eyes, dropping the spoon in the jar of olives and handing it to me instead of sticking it back in the fridge. I like him more than I did five seconds ago. I dig in, popping spoonfuls of them into my mouth, watching him finish his task with precision, like we’re feeding a party of twenty food critics and not just ourselves.
When he’s done, we pick at it together. We chat. We talk about school and practice, about his brother coming to town in a couple months and how he hasn’t seen him in ages. I don’t push for more information, but I can tell there is a distance there. When the inevitable talk about Morgan comes up, we both grow a bit more solemn.
“What’s Callum going to do?”
He’s leaning against the island on his elbows, grabbing a cracker and a pepperette. “I’m worried about how he’ll react when he sees Tom for the first time. I feel like if Morgan is around, he’s just going to pretend she doesn’t exist. Look right through her.”
“And you guys are still going to handle it the way you discussed?”
“Yeah,” he says, green eyes darting to mine. “It’s what they want. I’m more than happy to dish out whatever punishment they deem appropriate.”
“It should be worse,” I grumble. I think about that night often. How broken Callum looked, how worried Wyatt seemed.
