by Monica Cole
“I moved out not long after he helped me buy the studio.”
“Oh,” I say, picking at the white plastic on the chair, “Well, just text me the address I guess.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight then?” He says questioningly, like he’s reassuring my answer.
“Yea. See you later.”
I hang up, and Whitney immediately hounds me.
“Who was that? Was it Canyon? Are you two hanging out tonight?”
“Jeez, take a breath will you?” I flop down on my stomach, propping my chin in my hands. “Yes, it was Canyon. And yes, apparently we’re hanging out tonight.”
She lowers her sunglasses, studying me closely. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You know, being at his place alone?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then why are you going?”
“Because I don’t want him thinking I can’t handle this whole being friend’s thing.” I roll onto my back and throw my arm over my face. “It’s just dinner and a movie. It can’t be that bad, right?”
Whitney rolls to her side and pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Only as bad as you make it out to be. Obviously Canyon is trying to make an effort to put the past behind him, so I think you should too.”
I exhale, forgoing a reply because I can’t wholeheartedly agree with her advice. I promised Canyon I’d make an effort to be friends but forgiveness is a different story. The problem is, you can’t have one without the other.
Canyon sucks at giving directions. That or I just suck at reading them. I get lost three times trying to find his apartment, which turns out isn’t in Alden but in Linley, the next town over. It’s a good fifteen minutes away but luckily mom is off tonight, so I was able to borrow her car. She didn’t seem too interested that I was going to hang out with Canyon, but I didn’t miss the amused look Parker gave me before I walked out the door. No telling what he thinks is going on, but I doubt I’d like it. When I finally arrive at Canyon’s apartment complex, I’m not surprised by the fancy three story building that each have their own personal balconies. I figure he’s doing pretty well for himself if he can afford a place like this or maybe we just have different ideas of extravagant.
I park my car next to his truck and take my time walking to his building, mostly trying to talk myself out of this. I’m nervous. And that’s a severe understatement. My chest is tight and my head spinning. I’m pretty sure I’m about to throw up. Yet, as I make my way up the second flight of stairs, I can’t force myself to turn back even though every part of my body is screaming for me to. By the time I make it to the third floor I’m out of breath, my heart straining as it tries to slow down. Music is blaring from the other side of the door, so when I knock, I’m not sure if he hears it. I knock again, then try the doorbell and when he still doesn’t answer, I try the handle. It’s unlocked, so I let myself in, hoping it’s the right apartment as I wander inside.
There’s a camera sitting on the coffee table in the living room so I’m positive this is his place. It’s open and clean but then again he’s never been a messy person. Not like me anyways. I’m more of a slob then most guys. I walk into the kitchen but there’s still no sign of Canyon, so I make my way to the open door at the end of the hall. His bedroom looks similar to the one at his dad’s house. Same king size bed. No color except for the band posters he has taped to the inside of his closet door. Since I still have no clue where he is, I walk across the room and start pilfering through the random stuff littering the top of his dresser. Cologne. Old receipts. A small photo album.
Curious, I glance over my shoulder before dragging the photo album closer. I hesitate to open it, but my hands have other ideas. The first two pictures are of me and Canyon at his eighteenth birthday party. We’re sitting on the couch at my house, my head buried against his shoulder, clearly laughing at something he just said since he’s leaning close to my ear. The next one is more composed, his arm draped around my shoulder, holding me close as we smile at the camera. We look happy and it’s strange for me to remember that this version of myself used to exist. That my relationship with Canyon used to be so carefree and easy and now…now it’s just a memory trapped between the pages of a book.
“Hey.”
I slam the album shut and spin around to find Canyon a few feet behind me, ruffling a small towel through his wet hair. He’s wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, skin wet and glistening in the soft light of the room and suddenly every dirty thought I’ve ever had about him is being shoved to the front of my mind like a boulder I can’t move. Bad. This is so bad. I knew from the moment he asked me to come over that I should’ve said no. Being friends was a stupid idea. Coming here was a stupid idea.
“Sorry I didn’t hear you knock. I didn’t think you’d be here this early.” His voice is rough, and he clears his throat as he drops the small towel in a hamper by the door. I don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to the album behind me before he turns down the music on his iPod and disappears inside the closet. From where I’m standing, I catch a glimpse of him moving through the crack in the door but keep my eyes trained on the hardwood floor until he emerges wearing a pair of jeans and a faded Guns and Roses t-shirt. He tosses the other towel in the hamper and turns to me, hand cradling the back of his neck.
“You hungry?” he asks, and I’m starting to wonder if the room can contain anymore awkward.
I nod and push away from the dresser. His eyes follow me as I cross the room, so intense it feels like they’re sucking the oxygen right out of my lungs. I follow him down the hall to the kitchen, taking a seat when he motions to a bar stool. He walks around the island and opens the fridge.
“You thirsty?” He waves a can of coke over his shoulder, forcing me to answer since he can’t see me.
“Sure.”
He shuts the door and slides the can across the counter, both of us popping our tabs simultaneously. We take a drink, our eyes meeting briefly before he lowers the can and licks his lips, making the knots in my stomach cinch even tighter. He smashes his lips together and bends down to grab a pot from beneath the counter.
“You still like spaghetti, right?” He fills the pot with water, adds some salt and olive oil then turns on the burner.
“As long as your cooking skills haven’t gone to crap, then I’ll like anything you make.”
He grins and my heart starts racing like he’s some kind of drug and it just took a hit.
“Lucky for you, I’m still a kick ass cook.” He grabs a wooden spoon from the drawer and opens a pan that’s sitting on the stove. “And I made homemade sauce. Not that shitty stuff that comes in a jar.” He stirs the sauce, motioning his head at me as he spoons some up. “Come here.”
I hesitate. I shouldn’t get up. Getting up means putting myself in a vulnerable position yet some sadistic part of my heart is getting a thrill out of the idea. Swallowing my uncertainty, I slide off the stool and go stand beside him, leaning my hip against the counter. He blows on the sauce before holding the spoon out for me.
“Try it,” he says, placing his hand under the spoon so it doesn’t drip.
Avoiding his gaze, I lean forward, closing my mouth around the spoon, a hundred different flavors exploding inside my mouth all at once. I’m pretty sure it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted, but as soon as my eyes flick up and see Canyon looking at my mouth, I could care less about spaghetti sauce or vulnerability or how stupid of an idea it was to come here. All I care about is the familiar look in his brown eyes and what it’s doing to my insides. He slowly drags the spoon away, and I lick my lips, his eyes following the movement. My head is hazy, diluting the little voices in my head warning me that I don’t want this so all I can hear is the throbbing in my body, telling me I do.
Something sizzles and I blink a few times, realizing that Canyon is no longer in front of me. He turns down the burner where the pot of water is boiling over and then dumps noodles in the water.
“Your sauce is really good,
” I say, needing to get rid of the silence that’s settled over the kitchen. He still has his back to me but when he turns around, his face is unreadable, giving nothing away. I hate it. Hate that I’ve never been able to decipher what he’s thinking or feeling yet somehow he can read me like an open book. Even now when I’m trying to disguise the onslaught of emotions raging their way to the surface, I feel like he’s looking straight through me.
Canyon grabs a colander and sets it in the sink. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe, but it never turns out as good.” He grabs a loaf of Italian bread and rips off two large chunks. I reach over the bar and snag a piece, grinning widely when he narrows his eyes.
“Well, I think you have amazing sauce making skills. Your grandmother would be proud.”
“I doubt it. The first time I made it for her she said it tasted like sweaty old man balls.”
I choke on a piece of bread, then try not to die laughing as I take a drink of Coke.
“Then she should be proud, because it definitely doesn’t taste like that.”
He arches a brow. “You know what sweaty old man balls taste like?” he asks sarcastically.
I shoot him a look. “Yea, apparently your sauce.”
He chuckles. “Not nice.”
“Never claimed to be.”
He shakes his head and walks to the stove. He picks up the pasta and returns to the sink to drain it.
“Do you mind getting the plates?” he asks, steam clouding around his face.
I hop off the stool and walk around the counter. “Where are they?”
“In the cabinets to your left. Third door.”
I retrieve two plates then take them to Canyon where he loads them with pasta and a piece of bread. He leads me to the living room where we take a seat on the plush, oversized couch, our feet propped up on the coffee table. The pasta doesn’t taste anything like sweaty old man balls. I eat two huge helpings, and if Canyon hadn’t brought out a bottle of red wine, I would’ve eaten too much. Instead, I drink too much. By the time we’re halfway through X-Men First Class, we’ve polished off the first bottle and are basically done with the second. Normally I wouldn’t drink so much, but it makes sitting alone in a dark room with Canyon so much easier. I’m relaxed. Laughing when he makes a funny comment. No longer freaking out because he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne or if I moved my leg a few inches to the left, we’d be touching. I’m calm. Collected. I’m…
“So fucking hot.”
I whip my head in Canyon's direction, too fast and everything spins. His head is tilted back on the couch, eyes droopy, lips parted.
“What?”
“Hot. In here. Aren’t you sweating?” He runs a hand through his hair and makes a grunting noise.
“Not really,” I answer, tucking my feet under my legs. “Are you really that hot?”
He rolls his head, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
I snort a laugh at his sorry attempt to flirt but more to keep myself from yelling ‘yes’ as loud as I possibly can in his gorgeous face. “You’re drunk,” I tell him, reaching for my wine glass.
“Not as drunk as you. I’ve only had three glasses. You practically drank an entire bottle by yourself.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m drunk.”
He gnaws the corner of his lip, watching me take a drink like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Okay. How many fingers am I holding up?” He slowly lifts his middle finger, barely able to contain his laughter.
I slap him on the arm. “You’re holding up one finger. Would you like me to tell you where to shove it?”
His laughter fills the room, deep and carefree, and I swear the sound could reconstruct my heart if I let it.
“I think I have a pretty good guess,” he says, reclining his head against the couch.
We settle back into watching the movie, but I notice we’ve drifted closer. Canyon is leaning sideways, our shoulders almost touching, and if I turned my head the slightest bit, we’d be face to face. I don’t know how this happened. Us being this close or me being okay with it.
Maybe I am drunk.
“If you could have any superpower what would it be?”
I look at Canyon who still has his eyes glued to the T.V.
“The power to turn back time,” I answer. No hesitation. He looks at me and opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can question my response.
“What about you?”
He runs a hand over his jaw contemplatively. “The power to heal.” He says, sounding just as sure with his answer.
We turn our attention back to the movie, but for some reason his playful question seems to have sucked all the life from the room. I finish the rest of the wine then reach for Canyon’s glass that he’s barely touched. When the movie ends, he makes me sit at the bar with a cup of coffee while he cleans. I’m drunk. Totally, undeniably drunk. I know because I can’t stop staring at Canyon. I’m convinced there’s nothing sexier than a man doing the dishes. He’s singing along to the music playing from his phone, forearms flexing as he washes our plates. His cheeks are flushed, hair disheveled and every time he turns around to load something in the dishwasher, I get a perfect view of his ass.
“You’re staring.”
I blink, slowly lifting my eyes to meet his. The brown looks black. Endless and insatiable. There’s danger written all over that look, and it should scare the hell out of me. Why is it not scaring the hell out of me?
Feeling bold, I trail my eyes down his upper body, then back up. “Is it bothering you?” I ask, catching my bottom lip between my teeth.
He looks at my mouth for a split second then slams the dishwasher shut. He grabs the container of food he made for Parker and walks around the bar.
“Maybe I should drive you home,” he says, dodging my question. He grabs his keys and shoves his wallet into his pocket.
“No, I can drive,” I protest, my words heavy and lethargic. I retrieve my keys from my shorts, wincing when they clatter to the floor. I bend down to grab them, but I’m wobbly and uncoordinated and lose my balance on my way back up. I reach out for the nearest object, which happens to be Canyon’s arm, and he pulls me against his chest, one hand wrapped around my wrist, the other on my hip.
“Sorry to break it to you, but I don’t think you’ll be driving home tonight.” His voice is low, rumbling deep in his chest and reverberating into mine. I tilt my head back, not surprised to find him staring. It’s just the way he’s staring that feels like every ember of lust inside me is being drenched in gasoline. His eyes flicker around aimlessly, mostly lingering on my mouth and every time they do, my pulse flutters. I wonder what it would do if he kissed me? If it would feel the way it used to.
“Give me your keys,” he says, reaching for my hand.
I frown, and hide my hand behind my back, squeezing them tightly in my palm. “Canyon, I’m okay to drive. I promise.”
The look on his face tells me he’s not buying it. “Keys. Now.”
If Canyon knows one thing about me, it’s that I’m stubborn. Which is probably why he doesn’t look surprised when I yank my arm out of his grip and drop the keys down the front of my shorts. Actually, he laughs.
“Seriously? You think I won’t reach down there?”
I shrug. “Not if you don’t want me to call the cops for sexual harassment.”
He chuckles, taking a step toward me. “I don’t think you’d do that.” Another step. And another. A step forward for each step I take back until I’m pressed against the edge of the counter. Trapped. He smiles, a lopsided grin that makes my stomach coil into a giant ball of heat and lust. With one more step he closes the space between us. Places his hands on either side of me and leans in a fraction of an inch.
“If you think I won’t, you obviously don’t know me,” I stammer nervously, watching his eyes drift away from my mouth to meet mine. They’re so dark. A thin ring of brown around his dilated pupils. I know f
rom experience that someone can get lost in those eyes. I did. And I never found my way back out.
“Is that what you think? That I don’t know you?”
My mouth parts, but I seem to have lost the ability to form words. The only thing I’m aware of is Canyon. What parts of our bodies are touching and the electrical current each one is shooting through me. I’m equal parts terrified and turned on, and I’m not sure which one to channel. Of which one to give into.
“Answer me, Elle. Do you really think I don’t know you?” He watches me expectantly, patiently waiting for me to answer.
I drop my gaze to his chest and pretend to study the logo on his shirt. “I know you used to,” I reply quietly, my breathing louder than my own voice, “but maybe not so much now.”
For an iota of a second he looks irritated, but then he exhales and it extinguishes the emotion altogether.
“Elle, if you think I forgot one single thing about you then you’re wrong. If anything I remembered more. I know you inside and out. Sometimes better than you know yourself. Two years didn’t change that. I don’t think anything could.”
His words wreck me, but I don’t even care, because I’ve waited what feels like a lifetime to hear them. Spent long, torturous months wondering if I still meant something to him. Now that those thoughts have closure, I’m not sure what to do. I wasn’t expecting Canyon to be thrust back into my life or to get tangled up in his. I wasn’t expecting a second chance.
My thoughts are interrupted when his hand moves between us, his finger dragging a line down my stomach to the button on my shorts. The condo is void of any noise except for the sound of his shallow breathing, but I’m holding mine, too afraid to move or breathe. Anything that might fracture this moment. With one flick of his thumb he unbuttons my shorts, then slowly tugs the zipper down. My lungs are swelling, so I exhale, shaking with the unsteadiness of it. Almost hesitantly, his fingers dip down into my shorts. I gasp and I swear to god I almost lose it. He pauses, eyes finding mine. His face moves closer and for a split second I think he might kiss me. But in the end he only pulls out the keys, secures them around his finger, and takes his leisurely time refastening my pants.