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Daylight spills through the curtains the next morning, the brightness burning red through my closed eyes. I stretch my arm out almost instinctively, looking for any signs that I’m not alone.
It’s futile.
Sutton will have been up for hours already. She’s always been an early riser, even after a late night.
Throwing my arm over my eyes, I slowly blink them open, adjusting to the brightness. Despite asking her, on many occasions, to not draw back the curtains when she gets up, Sutton likes to have them open as she dresses for the day.
When I can see without feeling like a torch is burning my retinas, I drop my arm onto the mattress with a thud. I didn’t drink much last night, but the headache that started when we got back is still there. A dull ache at the base of my skull.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I scrub my hands through my hair, tugging on the strands hoping to redirect the pain. I need a painkiller and a glass of water.
As I sit on the edge of the bed, the events of last night replay in high definition. My fingers flex where they’re rested on my knee as an image of Savannah dancing with that guy taunts me. When she called me her ‘big brother’, a feeling I don’t want to even try to understand overwhelmed me. I should be relieved that she thinks of me that way.
So why does it cause a lead weight to sit in my stomach?
The ensuite door opens and Sutton walks into the room dressed for the day.
She’s fastening an earring when she says, “We should go for dinner tonight. I think it would be good if we talked.” There’s resignation in her tone, and I know she’s on the same page as me. Last night—my actions—was the tipping point.
Clearing my throat, I reply, “Yeah, I think that would be good.”
“Okay, I’ll book a table at Rust for seven. We can meet there. I think my meeting with Julien will probably run over.”
I don’t reply, instead I nod in agreement. Sutton’s eyes linger on me for a moment, then she turns and walks from the room.
My body goes lax as all of the tension leaves it. I’d buried myself under my work so deep that I hadn’t even noticed the physical impact the strain of this relationship was having on me.
Laying back on the bed, I listen to the sounds of the apartment. It’s quiet and I wonder if Savannah is still asleep or if she’s left for the day. She’s working herself into the ground, for what reason I’m not entirely sure. I’m surprised she’s still fucking standing. She’s welcome to stay here as long as she needs. I’m hardly ever here, so if she’s avoiding me, she doesn’t need to.
One conversation at a time.
Standing from the bed, I stretch my arms above my head. I need coffee, food and painkillers. My body is craving pancakes. Maybe I can grab some after I’ve hit the gym. Walking to the kitchen, I run through my plans for the day.
It’s Saturday, and although I don’t technically have to work, I know I’ll be putting in a few hours. Sacrifices have to be made when you own the company and your business partner has gone AWOL.
In the kitchen, I run my hand along the black granite countertop as I move around the island to the coffee machine. Pulling a mug out of the cabinet above the coffee maker, I place it under the nozzle. Grabbing a pod, I insert it into the machine and press start. I lean against the counter, my ankles crossed as I wait for it to brew.
My focus is out the window, at least until Savannah walks into the room. She’s wearing a pair of black leggings that hug her every curve and a simple black t-shirt. Her hair is mussed, like she hasn’t quite got around to running a brush through it.
“I’ll have a cup if you’re makin’ it.”
A nervousness washes over me, one that only comes when she’s near or we’re alone. It sits heavy on my chest as butterflies flutter in my stomach. Even with her having been here for nearly two months, it hasn’t gotten easier seeing her like this. It’s a little too intimate for my comfort.
I turn back to the coffee maker, pulling out the mug I’d made myself. Placing it on the counter, I incline my head toward it, indicating for her to take it.
As she moves about the kitchen, she says, “You know, you had no right last night to drag me outta that club like I’m some toddler pitchin’ a fit in the Piggly Wiggly. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sutton is ill at you for your behavior. I know I would be.”
With my back to her, I pull in a breath, busying myself with making another coffee. She’s right. Of course she is. I had no right to do what I did. I’m just not entirely surewhyI did what I did.
Keeping it simple, I reply, “Sutton isn’t mad about it, but, like you said, she has every right to be. I’m sorry.”
Please don’t ask me why I did it.
As much as I might say I don’t know why, I do recognise my own reaction when I’m jealous. And feeling possessive. But these are all things I have no right to feel. Feelings that are so wrong for me to have.
“I’m glad you’re man enough to admit when you’re wrong. And that y’all are good.”
“Yeah. We are.”No, we’re not.
