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I stick my glass in the dishwasher and head for the stairs. My hand brushes the banister just as I catch a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I hesitate, my foot hovering in mid-air as I look out the living room window and watch as a tall shadow moves across the asphalt driveway. Warring with myself. Torn between what I want to do and what I should do.
There’s a blue hoodie hanging from the row of pegs by the front door. I shrug it on before heading outside. It does little to temper the chill in the air, despite hanging halfway down my thighs. Based on the size, I’m certain it’s Holden’s.
I wrap the cotton tighter around me as I walk down the front steps and veer to the left, toward the driveway.
I hear the rhythmic smack of rubber against asphalt before I round the corner of the house. The basketball hoop is attached to the front face of the garage, which is tucked between the sideof the house and the row of bushes that separates the Adamses’ yard from the neighbors.
There’s an exterior light affixed above the hoop that casts a dim light over the asphalt. Over the figure who’s sitting on the asphalt now, instead of standing and shooting.
I walk over and sink down beside him. The driveway is cold and hard. But I’m more focused on the guy next to me than the fact it feels like I’m sitting on an ice cube.
“B minus, huh?”
The graded rewrite of his essay was waiting on the kitchen counter when I came downstairs after my shower, along with curious looks from my mom and Maggie.
Holden Adams doesn’t casually stop by my house—not anymore. I have no idea what him dropping off the rewrite of the essay I helped him ace means. His version of a thank you?
“Yeah.” One word, yet it conveys a lot. It tells me Holden is testy and annoyed. That our conversation tonight won’t resemble the predictable pattern of past Friday nights.
I glance over, watching as he takes a drink from a glass bottle that was hidden in the shadows. The light is dim, but it’s enough to illuminate a purplish bruise blooming just above the sharp line of his jaw. “What happened to your face?”
“Game tonight…devolved.”
“Into a brawl?”
Holden scoffs. “You should see the other guy.”
“You actually got into a fight?” My voice rises an octave, surprise and concern sharpening the words.
“It was nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” I glance at the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing, wondering if it’s covering other bruises.
“Why do you care?”
“I…care. Getting drunk and fighting? You’re more than that—you’re better than that, Holden.”
He snorts before grabbing the whiskey bottle and taking another sip of the amber liquid. “You can spare me the wasted potential pep talk.”
“Fine. I will.” I lean over, intending to snatch the bottle. If he wants to throw a pity party, at least I can save him from getting alcohol poisoning while he attends it.
Holden moves too. To stop me or grab the bottle, or maybe he’s equally uncomfortable sitting on the hard asphalt. He straightens as I reach, and somehow I end up mostly in his lap. Closer than we’ve been since…I knowexactlyhow long it’s been since we were this close, actually.
I should move away. Far,faraway, from the scent of cinnamon and the heat of his body. But I don’t. I remain frozen in place, watching our proximity register on Holden’s face. The haze of liquor leaves his eyes, and the false humor disappears from his face.
Holden tilts his head back, looking up at the sky. I can see more of his face than I could before. Not just the bruised jaw, but the freckle beneath his left eye. The small bump on the bridge of his nose from when he took a basketball to the face in fifth grade gym class. The small crease in the corner of his mouth where a dimple rarely appears.
His throat bobs as he swallows. Once. Twice. “Only you.” He whispers the words, then laughs. “Only you could get me hard right now.”
Unconsciously, I shift. Seeking. Or maybe it’s conscious. Maybe I knowexactlywhat I’m looking for. Maybe the past few years have all been leading up to this moment, to some acknowledgment there’s more between us than a forgotten friendship. An abandoned friendship he walked away from.
Holden groans when I brush against the bulge in his joggers. It fuels something rising in me. Some urge, a primal motivation.
The wordsOnly you could get me hard right noware echoing in my head.
A secret, sincere confession. And also an acknowledgment of what we’ve avoided. Well, whatheavoided and I accepted, to protect what little of my heart he hadn’t already broken.
“Fuck,” he rasps, as my hips move closer. Faster.
