Page 85 of Clinically Awkward

The evening air was cool. Crisp. The kind of October night that made someone think about flannel shirts and apple cider and all the other bullshit people romanticized about fall in New England.

I was thinking about my couch and maybe ordering pizza.

And I was definitely thinking about Vivian, who was leaning against her car with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, hair pulled back in that messy bun she always wore when she was stressed. The sight of her made my heart do something stupid. Something that felt suspiciously like hope mixed with terror as I walked over, forcing myself to smile. “Waiting for me?”

“We need to talk.”

Oh God. This is it. This is the moment she tells me it was a mistake. That we’re better off as friends. That she’s staying with the boyfriend because at least he has a gym membership and a car he actually washes.

I swallowed and forced my voice to stay steady.

“Want to come over?” I asked. “I can order dinner. Your choice.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said slowly.

And there it was. The rejection I had been dreading since the moment I woke up in my bed alone.

No. Absolutely not. I am not losing her without a fight.

“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, stepping closer. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough that I could smell her shampoo. Something floral and clean that made me want to bury my face in her hair and never let go.

I reached out and pulled her closer.

She didn’t resist. “I know we need to talk about what happened,” I said quietly. “But if you’re going to tell me it was a mistake, I would rather live in bliss for one more night before you break my heart.”

Her eyes widened. “Quinton.”

“We were friends, Vivian,” I said. “Friends don’t hurt each other.”

“Friends don’t sleep with each other,” she interrupted.

“They do if they burn the sheets like we did.”

She blushed.

God, I love that.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It was hot.”

“Come over,” I said. “We can talk. No strings. Just conversation.”

“And no tequila,” she added.

I smirked. “Fitz drank it all last night.”

She laughed.

There it is.

That sound I never knew was missing from my life.

“Fine,” she said, nodding. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

I leaned down and kissed her cheek.

Quick. Chaste. The kind of kiss that said I’m not pushing my luck, but I’m also not giving up.