by Meghan Quinn
Shit.
Knowing I shouldn’t, but unable to let her leave like this, I slip on my shoes and hurry down the stairs to the parking lot where I catch Rory placing her items in the car.
“Wait,” I call out, jogging up to her.
Shocked, Rory straightens up next to her small VW Bug and watches me. Wary. When I reach her, I’m not really sure what I’m going to say, but I know one thing: she’s not leaving here like this . . . upset.
Taking her by the waist, I pull her into a hug, my arms wrapping around her back, holding her close to my body.
“I don’t know why things are weird between us,” I say honestly. “But I don’t want you to be upset. I don’t want you to see me and not give me a hug. I don’t want you to feel awkward around me.”
“I don’t want that either,” she says softly, her voice just about breaking me with the heaviness laced through each word.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pressing my hand into her hair, loving how the soft strands feel falling through my fingers.
Looking at me, she asks, “Why are you sorry?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea, just that I’m sorry that there has been a shift in our relationship. I don’t like not talking to you. I hate seeing us struggle to find words for each other, or to see you walk out the door without giving me a hug goodbye. That just about killed me. So, I’m sorry if I drove you to do that.”
“You didn’t.” She shakes her head. “I just . . .” She shakes her head again. “Forget it. It’s really stupid, and I’d rather you not think of me as stupid right now.”
“Bet you I won’t. Lay it on me.”
“No.” She laughs. “It’s really, really stupid and the more I think about it, the more I’m embarrassed the thought even crossed my mind.”
I twist a lock of her hair around my finger and smile. “Now you have to tell me.”
“Never.”
“What?” I squeeze her. “Come on, just tell me.”
“No, because you’ll judge me, and I don’t want you to judge me.”
I tug on the strand of hair I’ve been twisting. “How about I promise I won’t judge you? Just tell me.”
She sighs, turning her eyes away from me for a brief moment before she points her fingers at me and says, “Okay, but you promised not to judge.”
“Promise.” And in this moment, as I wait for Rory to confess her truth, the corners of my lips turn up. This, right here, this is the us I’ve come to love. The joking, the teasing, the honesty, and it’s why I’m so in love with this woman. With Rory, what you see is what you get. She wears her heart on her sleeve, her pride on her chest, and her humor in her eyes.
She’s brilliantly perfect in every way.
Pulling away, she leans against her car and plays with the hem of her shirt when she mumbles something.
“What?” I ask, stepping forward, placing my hands on her hips. It’s automatic, my hands needing to touch her, needing to be near her. I should keep my distance, but my body isn’t listening to my brain. It’s letting my heart take charge, once again bordering dangerous territories. “You’re going to have to talk a little louder than that.”
Letting out a heavy exhale, she meets my eyes and says, “I thought that maybe you liked staying with Ryan better.” Before I can debunk that thought, she says, “I know, I know I’m stupid, but your departure was so abrupt the other night, and then when I walked in, you looked so relaxed, more relaxed than when you’re at my place, that I thought maybe you liked it better there. And not that it should matter, but it just, I don’t know, made me feel weird.” She buries her head in her hands and shakes it. “God, I hate that I just told you that.”
More relaxed at Ryan’s? Yeah, probably, but that’s only because when I’m at Rory’s, I’m doing my fucking hardest to keep myself under control when I’m around her, to not lose control and give in to my feelings. I’m holding back because if I do relax, then I know what will happen. I’ll lose everything I have with Rory by taking what I want.
And that’s exactly what I can’t fucking have.
God, I hate that I hurt her. Made her doubt herself.
Wanting to ease her embarrassment, I go with the partial truth. Removing her hands from her face so she’s forced to look at me, I say, “Do you really think I like staying at Ryan’s apartment, having to dodge undergarments all the time? Picking up after her? Getting two minutes in the bathroom in the morning because she takes over an hour to get ready?” I shake my head. “No, staying with you is better than staying with Ryan. I left because I thought you might want some time to yourself. Believe me when I say I look forward to the weekends when I get to hang out with you.”
That brings a smile to her face; a beautiful, all-consuming smile.
Unable to hold back, I push a stray lock of hair behind her ear, loving how her cheek leans into my touch and the way her eyes flutter shut for a brief second. Is she . . . it almost makes me . . . does she have feelings for me?
The keyword being almost.
No reason to get my hopes up over a brief moment.
“Okay, well, I should let you get going.” I don’t mean what I say. What I really want is to hop in her car and go to her place where I can pull her onto my lap on the couch, sift my hand through her hair, and slowly explore her lips with mine, memorizing the way she feels and tastes on my tongue. “Thank you for dinner. It was really good.”
“Of course, glad you liked it.” Biting on her lower lip, she asks, “So, see you Friday?”
I nod. “Yeah, see you Friday.”
“Okay.” Stepping in closer, she gives me one of her infamous hugs and then steps away, pushing more hair behind her hair. “See you Friday, Stryder.”
I watch intently as she gets in her car, starts it up, and slowly backs away. Friday, just two days away, but as she drives away, it feels like a lifetime.
Chapter Eighteen
RORY
“If you keep biting on your lip like that, you’re going to worry a hole through it,” my mom says when she sets down her menu. Dad is with Bryan, having a guys’ night, so my mom asked me out to dinner.
The distraction is much needed, especially since my mind has been focused on one thing and one thing only lately: Stryder.
I can’t get him out of my head, and I can’t seem to get the feeling of his hand passing through my hair out of my head either. It’s like his hand is permanently there, stroking, threading, twirling, yanking.
“Hey.” My mom pokes me with her fork. “I’m talking to you.”
“What?” I shake my head, clearing my mind, trying to focus.
Crossing her arms over her chest, my mom leans back on her side of the booth in her our favorite Mexican restaurant, Salsa Brava, and says, “Spill. What has you so distracted?”
And just like that, the emotions hit me once again, but there is no holding them back this time. My throat closes in on me, my eyes start to well with tears, and my entire body begins to shake as I try to squeeze the words out past my mouth.
“Mom . . .” I say on a short breath.
Her hand finds mine, worry immediately etching her features. “What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I . . . think I might like Stryder.”
The truth falls out of my mouth, allowing myself to accept what my heart has been trying to tell me.
“Oh.” My mom blinks her eyes a few times. “You like Stryder?”
I nod, tears falling down my cheeks. “Like, really like him.” I wipe away a stray tear.
“And are you afraid he might not like you?”
“No . . . I mean . . . maybe. But that’s not what’s really making me lose my mind. I mean, I’m so emotional lately, Mom. When I’m around him, I’m either so incredibly happy that I think I might burst, or I’m so full of guilt that it starts to eat me alive.”
“Guilt? Why? Because of Colby?” I nod, more tears streaming down my cheeks. “Honey, you shouldn’t feel guilty about Colby. It’s been months since you
broke up. You’re allowed to move on.”
“But with his best friend?” I shake my head. “It’s not . . . right.”
“Says who?”
A little shocked and caught off guard from my mom’s blasé attitude, I say, “Well, I mean . . . society.”
My mom quirks an eyebrow at me in question. “Society?”
“Yeah, you know, there is that unspoken rule about not dating your ex’s friends, especially their best friend.”
“Tell me this.” My mom places her hand on mine. “If Stryder wasn’t Colby’s friend and you met him randomly, then would you go for it?”
I bite my bottom lip and think about it, considering what it would have been like if I met Stryder without Colby, if I met him first. I would have been intimidated, because where Colby is handsome, Stryder is striking. And where Colby was mysterious, Stryder has a heavy dose of swagger that would have been difficult for me to get past.
But I do think I would have talked to him, and no doubt in my mind, I would have been swept up into his little world, curious as to who the real Stryder is, what’s beneath his strong façade.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” my mom answers for me. I slowly nod, admitting the truth. “So don’t let the friendship Stryder has with Colby interfere. You said they don’t even really talk anymore, right?”
“Yeah, they don’t talk at all.”
Patting my hand again, my mom says, “Honey, people drift apart when they enter new chapters of their lives. Colby and Stryder went their opposite ways. It’s sad to see, but you can’t base your life off a relationship from the past. They’ve moved on, and I think you should too.”
I shake my head. “But he hasn’t moved on.”
“Who?”
I reach into my purse and pull out another letter from Colby that I’ve yet to open. Eyeing the envelope, my mom sighs, shoulders slumping in what seems like disappointment. “Have you read it?” I shake my head.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t?” I ask.
“No, because what good is it going to do?” I shrug my shoulders, and she continues. “Tell me this, will Colby ever change his profession?”
He offered to, but I knew that was wrong. “He belongs in the sky,” I answer, knowing how much he truly does.
“Then what’s the point of reading his words again? He can’t be near you, so you’re just hurting yourself over and over again, ripping open a wound, never letting it heal. It’s like you’re punishing yourself for a very brave and loving decision. I loved Colby, he was the sweetest boy, but he has to realize that your lives are going in separate directions now.”
I play with my fork and voice a thought I’ve had forming in my head for a little while. “I’m also confused at him.”
“At who? Colby?” I nod. “Why?”
“Because,” I flick the letter, “he’s made time to send me these letters, but didn’t call his best friend. I know a friendship goes both ways, but Colby knew Stryder was hurting. Just doesn’t seem like him.”
“Oh honey, you can’t get in the middle of their friendship. You can’t control what they do. All you can think about is if Stryder is worth it.”
“So . . . you think I should see where my feelings for Stryder take me?”
“I think if you feel strongly for him, it would be a shame for you not to see where it goes. Love is a funny thing, honey, because it can come in all different kinds of packages. But until you spend the time unwrapping them, looking for your forever, you’ll never truly find it.”
I put my head in my hands and hold back the scream that wants to pop out of me. “Why do I have to like him, Mom?”
“Despite what people try to think, the brain doesn’t control the heart. Your heart controls your brain. Stryder has a piece of it, and if I know that boy like I think I do, you have a huge piece of his. There are not many men out there your brother gets along with, or men who would sit by your bedside after an appendectomy, or who would wait on you hand and foot afterward, making sure you’re taken care of. He likes you, Rory. You need to give him a chance.”
Taken aback, I look at my mom dumbfounded. “I’m kind of shocked that you’re pulling for Stryder. When I first told you about him staying with me, you were against it, against him.”
Taking a sip of her water, my mom smiles at me. “It’s not very hard to win me over, Rory. Love my babies, and I love you. He adores Bryan and treats him as an equal. And where you’re concerned, there’s such a strong connection. It’s hard not to like a man who looks at your daughter the way he looks at you.”
A blush creeps over my cheeks, heating my face. “He looks at me a certain way?” I might have caught it a few times, but then again, I thought I was imagining it. And then he left so suddenly the other night . . .
“Oh, honey. When you’re around, his face softens, his body language leans toward you and only you, and his voice holds a different tone, almost like when you’re around . . . he feels at peace.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach, fluttering frantically, causing a smile. I try to think back to the many interactions we’ve had together, but the one sticking in my brain is the concert, where he sang to me sweetly and held my hand for the rest of the night. I should have known then . . . things were different between us.
I should have seen it in his eyes.
I should have felt it in the way he holds me.
I should have reciprocated, because I want more with him. I want him to hold my hand. I want him to be in my apartment every night, not just on the weekends.
I want him to hold me every night—through the night—not just for the ten seconds when we hug good night.
I just hope I’m not too late.
I’m going to take a chance, because my heart and soul are just as tuned to him as his are to me.
No more missed cues.
No more missed opportunities.
Stryder: Leaving work now.
That was twenty minutes ago. Stryder should be here any minute. After staying the week with Ryan, I almost feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen him—talked to him—and I couldn’t be more excited about seeing him tonight, for him to stay with me.
I need to make sure I don’t bombard him, though. That my excitement doesn’t jump the gun, and I don’t try to make out with him right away, despite what my body wants. I need to take this slow, to make sure it’s something he wants.
I check my hair in the bathroom mirror, making sure the soft waves are pinned back in place. I loosely curled my hair and pulled back the front, leaving the back down and wavy. I put on a little bit of makeup and decked out my eyelashes with black mascara, making my eyes pop. Unsure of what to wear, I decided might as well go all out. I put on a royal-blue cotton sundress that is cinched under my breasts and then flows to just above my knees. It’s cute but also casual, nothing too fancy, just a step up from the normal pajama shorts and shirt Stryder sees me in.
The apartment is clean, dinner is in the oven—lemon chicken and broccoli—and his bed is made and ready. Wanting to seem casual when he comes in, not like I’ve been impatiently waiting for him to open the door, I hop on my bed, pull out my iPad, and start scrolling through my social media feed, mindlessly taking in statuses and pictures, checking the clock every two seconds.
Where is he?
Maybe traffic was bad. Should I text him, see how far away he is?
No, that would be obvious.
The sound of a car door shutting echoes up to my open windows, alerting me that he might be home.
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait to hear the creak of the stairs.
I wait, impatiently, wondering if that was him.
And then, someone starts climbing the apartment stairs, getting closer and closer until the handle on the door starts to twist open.
Oh God, he’s here.
Be cool, Rory.
The door opens and Stryder enters, spotting me immediately on the bed. Bag in hand, wearing his desert camo uni
form, pants tucked into his boots, sleeves of his jacket rolled up, his cap resting low on his brow, he looks like a soldier returning home on leave—sexy and sinful with the smirk that’s currently spread across his face.
My breath catches in my throat as he shuts the door with his foot, closing off the rest of the world, leaving it just us. My body itches to jump into his arms, to see what it feels like to press my mouth against his, to give in to this pulsing yearning that’s constantly roaring through me when he’s around.
“Hey you.” He takes his cap off, hanging it up along with his jacket, before walking over to his bed and setting his bag down. He sits on the mattress and starts to take off his boots when I hop off my bed and head toward him.
I watch in fascination as his eyes slowly travel up my legs, to the hem of my dress, to my breasts, and then to my face. Sitting back, boot half untied, he says, “Shit, Rory, you look . . .” He pauses, catching himself, and swallows, going back to his shoes. Pushing the laces inside, he sets the heavy boots at the base of his bed and stands, untucking his shirt, lifting it high enough for me to catch a patch of his skin before he covers it back up. “Uh, you look beautiful.” Seeming unsure, he says, “Do you have a date or something tonight?”
I shake my head, so damn nervous that I almost feel like I want to cry. This shouldn’t be a big deal. This is Stryder, one of my best friends. He knows you in and out, so this should be exciting. Natural.
“Just wanted to look nice today.”
He exhales, almost as if he was holding his breath, waiting to hear if I had a date. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” Stepping in closer, I hesitate for a second before hugging him, unsure if I should, but before I can decide if I should, he pulls me in the rest of the way. One of his hands goes to the back of my neck, and the other wraps around my waist.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs softly in my ear. And at that moment right there, the press of his fingers into my skin and the feel of his large hand against my neck, combined with his signature scent consuming me, I’m a goner. There is no turning back after tonight.