Page 95 of Lost Love on 6th Street

It was the song.

“Hyacinth.”

I wipe my hands over my face, wicking away the water. “What the fuck, Dad?!” I mutter.

What did he do? What did they do?

Do I want to know the answer?

Though I have more questions than answers, I know one thing for sure.

I can’t keep up the lie. I have to tell Eleanor that I’ve known about Diane from the very beginning, and that I’ve harbored this lie since the inception of us.

And I have no one to blame but myself if the truth causes everything to collapse.

31

ELEANOR

My face is warm, my brain buzzing, and my body is like gelatin in the best way possible. I know I might be paying for it in the morning, but for now, I’m enjoying the lighter than air feeling.

I lean on the door frame and watch as Luke finagles my keys into the lock. He’s so handsome. That golden hair, those blue eyes, his long and lanky frame.

Mmmm . . .

I never thought a guy like him would go for a girl like me. I know I’m pretty, but he’s just the conventionally pretty type, and I’m the . . . well, I thought I was the unconventionally pretty type. Maybe I should start reevaluating that.

As soon as he opens the door, he pushes it open for me. “After you.”

Instead of going through the door, I swoon into his arms, trapping him in a messy kiss. Luke balks. “What are you doing?” he asks though my lips muffle his.

I grab at his suspenders. So grabbable. And I answer him with another kiss, yanking him into my apartment.

Luke trips after me. “Eleanor—”

“These suspenders are so damn sexy,” I say into his mouth, then I snatch another kiss. I taste beer, but I don’t know if that’s his mouth or mine. Though the apartment is silent, I still hear the twanging guitar in the background, revving me up and setting the scene.

I grip the bottom half of his shirt and untuck it, kissing and kissing and kissing him. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of his mouth.

Luke’s hands drop to my shoulders. Prodding. Away? Pushing? “Eleanor, slow down, I—”

“I know we’ve been drinking, but I’m consenting. I’m totally consenting,” I reassure him, then plant sloppy kisses on his jaw. “Okay? It’s fine.”

“That’s not—"

I don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. I shove him down onto my couch and plop down onto his lap.

“Eleanor.” His insistence eggs me on. The syllables of my name on his tongue with his accent—fuck.

I’ve never felt this way for a man before. In every part of my life. It’s cosmic. It’s destined. It’s perfect.

Maybe because we started as friends, started with our minds, though our hearts were all tangled up from the very beginning, too. It’s only gotten better; every moment I have with Luke paints a bigger, more beautiful picture of us together. Like I can take a snapshot of the future—it’s glorious.

This is what people mean when they say when it happens, you’ll know.

Because I know.

I run my fingers through his hair, moving my hips against him.

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