“I know,” I say again, because what else is there to say? “I know.”
We stand like that for a long time, the only sounds her sobs and Thistle’s occasional disgruntled meows. I can feel the tension slowly draining out of her, her body growing heavier in my arms as exhaustion takes over. I should let go. I should step away. But I don’t. I can’t.
When she finally pulls back, her face is a mess, her eyes swollen, her nose red. She looks beautiful, and that’s the most fucked-up part of all.
“I’m a mess,” she says, trying to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob.
“You’re not a mess,” I lie, gently wiping a tear from her cheek with my thumb. “You’re never a mess.”
She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I think she’s going to say something else, something that will change everything between us again. But then she just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
“I should… I should get cleaned up,” she says, stepping back and putting some distance between us. The loss of her warmth is jarring.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “Probably.”
I watch as she disappears into the bathroom, the sound of running water reaching me a moment later. I should go. I really should. This is too complicated, too messy. But my feet arerooted to the spot, my body refusing to obey the logical part of my brain that’s screaming at me to leave.
Thistle jumps down from the sofa and approaches me cautiously, his tail flicking back and forth. He sniffs my hand, then rubs against my leg, a silent truce offered. I scratch his head, and he rewards me with a low purr.
“At least someone on this planet doesn’t hate me right now,” I mutter.
The bathroom door opens, and Caroline emerges, her face washed, her eyes still red but no longer swollen. She’s changed into a fresh T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
“You’re still here,” she says, not as a question but as a statement of fact.
“I am,” I admit. “I should go, but…”
“But you don’t want to,” she finishes for me.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t.”
She nods, understanding passing between us without words. “Tea? Or something stronger?”
“Something stronger,” I say without hesitation.
She smiles, a small, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I think I can manage that.”
As she moves toward the kitchen, I follow, my body acting on instinct.
Caroline opens the fridge, the cool light illuminating her face as she surveys the contents. “Well, the options are limited. I’ve got… some questionable-looking milk, a jar of pickles, and…” she leans in closer, “ah, tequila. And whiskey. Your pick.”
I watch her work, my eyes tracing the lines of her body. The long T-shirt she’s wearing rides up as she bends, revealing a sliver of her thighs, soft and pale in the dim light.
A memory hits me then: Caroline in my kitchen, years ago, her brow furrowed in concentration as she measured out herbs for some experimental tea blend she was creating just for me.She was always trying new combinations, convinced she could brew the perfect potion for whatever ailed me. I would lie and tell her they were amazing, even when they tasted like dirt.
She’s added more weight since then, her curves softer, more pronounced. Sexier. I clear my throat and look away, focusing on a water stain on the ceiling. Anything but her.
“The whiskey.”
She reaches up to the top shelf, her fingers just brushing against the bottle.
“I’ve got it,” I say, stepping forward.
“No, I have it,” she insists, stretching a little further.
The bottle slips from her grasp, crashing to the floor in a spray of glass and amber liquid.
“Fuck,” she says, staring at the mess.
