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Shelly is the first woman to truly monopolize my every thought. The amount of time I spent thinking of Kelsey years back is child’s play compared to the hours and days I think of Shelly. Often, I chastise my obsession with Shelly. Tell myself it isn’t healthy to spend every waking—and non-waking—minute with one person invading my thoughts.
Art is how I cope with this obsession. How I release the emotions growing, building, expanding exponentially inside. The emotions I don’t expose to anyone—at least not verbally.
Will Shelly pick up on the underlying emotion I don’t—can’t—voice when she sees my art?
Part of me hopes she sees it all. Part of me begs her to solve the big mystery. To put an end to my constant indecision. The other part of me pukes at the possibility.
“The curator is sending me the details. I’ll share more when I get the email. Most exhibitions are casual. The food is hit or miss. Might be a good idea to eat before or after, depending on the showtime.”
Yep, definitely making this sound more and more like an official date. While I didn’t outright suggest dinner together, it won’t shock me if she interprets it as an invitation. I won’t deny her if she does. I will never deny Shelly.
Keep telling yourself it’sheryou’re not denying. You know it’syou.
“Okay.” She looks back out at the lake, her smile still firmly in place. “We should head back. I smell rain.”
We look up simultaneously. Looming overhead is a cluster of gray clouds, slowly drifting in from the coast and stealing the blue sky.
Rising from the bench, I wait for Shelly to lead. Her eyes scan the lake one last time as she takes a deep breath. On the way back, the rustle of leaves and clap of our shoes on the path chase away the silence. Our pace faster with the impending storm.
Peeking at her profile, I will her to speak. Will her to tell me what is on her mind.
Does she think Saturday is a date? Or just two friends hanging out, one supporting the other, while possibly sharing a meal together? Not like we haven’t shared several meals or spent time together. Regardless, the list of questions grows longer with each step forward.
But I don’t ask a single one. I won’t ask.
Because more than anything, I fear her answer. Fear she believes Saturday is a legit date. Fear I will have to cut ties with her because being emotionally vulnerable scares the hell out of me. Fear that I feel more for her than I am willing to admit to anyone, including myself.
I care for Shelly. More than afriendcares for anotherfriend. And no matter how hard I try to define our relationship, the lines are blurring. From where I stand, they blur more each day.
The biggest question of all… do I let those lines disappear completely? Or do I draw them sharper in the sand?
God… how I want that line to disappear.
ELEVEN
SHELLY
We reachthe parking lot as the first drops of rainfall.
I dig the fob out of my pocket and unlock the car. Feet away, I slow my pace. Ready to turn on my heel and tell Devlyn I will talk to him later. Before I get the chance, his fingers lightly brush my lower bicep. Curl into a firm yet gentle grip above my elbow. Stop me in my tracks.
Heat radiates from the spot where his hand touches me through the hoodie. Briefly, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. On the exhale, I open my eyes and slowly spin to face him.
“Shelly…” His voice is soft, scratchy, hesitant. His pale-green irises a touch darker and loaded with unspoken emotion.
I lick my lips and his eyes drop to follow the action. “Yeah?”
His eyes flick north as he swallows. Drizzly rain kisses our skin, yet neither of us attempts to escape it. And it is in this moment that I see it. The emotion he works so hard to keep hidden. The feelings simmering in his veins that he refuses to give control.
Since Devlyn and I fell into friendship, I questioned how he really felt. Not that I need more than he gives, but it oftentimes feels as if he holds back. Restrains himself from temptation. Resists what he truly wants. What we both want.
I have no idea what it is Devlyn wants—for himself, from me—but I wish he wouldn’t fight his heart.
He scratches the back of his neck. His brows pinch together for a split second before he smooths his expression. “Come back to my place?” Of all the things to come from Devlyn’s mouth, that wasnotwhat I expected to hear. “The weather and that call”—he tosses a thumb over his shoulder—“cut our time here.”
This right here, this exact moment, is why my brain is a scrambled mess. We have hung out several times, but not a single occasion has been at my place or his. Probably his method of keeping ourfriendshipin check. If we don’t step into each other’s personal space, the wall between friends and lovers stays upright. Solid. Permanent.
Not to be presumptuous, but him asking me to come over… did a few bricks from his highly erected wall just tumble?
