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The whole time I’ve known him, Andre has always given the best hugs. Each individual cuddle we’ve shared stands out so brightly in my mind, the memories crystal clear. We’ve always slotted so perfectly against each other—like we were made to measure.
Thegood girlthing is new. I bite my lip, cheeks flushing warm, and hide my reaction against the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m getting snot on your clothes.”
Andre chuckles, still rubbing circles on my back. “I don’t care.”
He really doesn’t. If anything, he seems relieved that we’re talking at all. And I don’t want to ruin this, don’t want to trample all over Andre’s peace offering right after letting my brother down, so I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tighter.
“I’m such an idiot.”
“You are not,” Andre says. But I have proof, your honor!
“Are you kidding me? Writing that letter to Dear Hattie, then waiting out here for you last night? Lying in bed in a huff instead of saying goodbye to my brother? I’ve been a non-stop ass.”
The regret tastes sour. I swallow hard, grimacing against Andre’s collarbone, and he gusts out a long sigh then rests his chin on my head.
He smells so good, even in yesterday’s clothes. Like soap and spice and something woodsy. Every time he moves his head, his stubble crackles against my hair.
I want to stay here forever. He’s so warm, so solid, sosafe.
“Stephen understands.” Andre pinches a lock of my hair and runs the whole length of it between finger and thumb, ironing out the waves then watching them spring back. I watch his experiment out of the corner of my eye, heart rattling against my ribs. “He was worried about you. Not mad.”
See, it’s stuff like this cuddle that made me think I had a shot. But I don’t, do I?
Sniffing hard, I step out of his embrace. No more chasing daydreams for me.
Andre looks wan as he smiles down at me, the morning breeze ruffling his dark hair. There are faint lines around his eyes—lines I never noticed before. If anything, they make him more handsome.
“You’ll be okay, Faith. Now, will you meet me for a run?”
Yes. No.
I gnaw on my bottom lip, staring over his shoulder out to sea. It’s rougher out there than yesterday, and I always love running when it’s windy. It’s so energizing. Like a bolt of electricity to my system.
Andre looks so tired as he waits patiently for my answer. He should really take a nap before work, not go running with me, but hey. I’m not about to lecture anybody else on their bad decisions.
“Okay. But—yesterday never happened.”
His mouth twists into a sad smile. “Deal.”
* * *
Andre runs most mornings, his dark hair tied back as he bounds along the coast path. Whenever Stephen’s home, he hollers after our neighbor, yelling: “Run, man bun, run!” and cackling as Andre flips him off.
I run most days too, but I’m a plodder. Slow and steady. Andre pounds out ten miles before breakfast, easily, but I need three months to train for a simple 10k. Every step is an effort for me.
It’s fine. I don’t mind that I’m not about to win any medals—that’s not the point of my runs. I go out for the wind in my hair, the salt stinging my cheeks, the sweaty warmth of my muscles and the buzz in my bones and the spring in my step that lasts the whole day afterward.
I need that spring today. Need it desperately.
“Don’t go expecting Usain Bolt,” I warn as I hop down our front steps. Andre grins from the sidewalk, finally changed into dark shorts and a white t-shirt.
“Oh, is he coming?”
“Nope. You’re about to learn the meaning ofslow.”
We set out side by side, Andre breathing normally, me huffing and puffing right away. It must feel like walking to him, but he doesn’t complain once. He seems happy enough trudging along at my pace, squinting out at the ocean waves. His t-shirt flaps against his chest, outlining his muscles.
