Page 27 of Crash & Burn

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Eddie says. “I didn’t realize,” he pauses and shakes his head. I can’t blame him for not knowing what to say. Death isn’t exactly the easiest conversation piece. “Your brother mentioned to me that you were going through something, but I didn’t realize...” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Wait, what?” Mateo said something to him? Why would he bring this up to Eddie of all people? It’s not his business. It’s mine. “Why would he tell you about Nico?”

“Oh, no. No. He didn’t tell me about him. He just mentioned thatIshouldn’t, I mean,weshouldn't bother you.” He runs his fingers through his hair before pushing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “You know, because you’re our band photographer now, and he doesn’t want me, Theo, or Silas to screw that up.”

Something about his answer leaves me uneasy, but I can’t quite place it.

“Oh, got it,” is all I can say, trying not to make it obvious that I doubt Mateo would go into detail about why the guys shouldn’t bother me because he’s never given a reason before. Not since I was a teenager and labeled off-limits to the guys. “Well, I’m fine. Grieving isn’t linear. I’ve been in a bad spot for a while, but I’m starting to feel like myself again.”

“How did he die?”

My last sip of coffee burns like acid in my throat as a swallow. I’ve hit my limit for talking about Nico today, and am left with the residual anger of finding out that Mateo equates me to a wounded puppy. So now Eddie, and probably the other guys too, feel like they have to walk on eggshells around me.

“Is this why you came over? Did Mateo put you up to this?”

“What? No, of course not. Look, I’m sorry for asking.”

“Then why are you here? You could’ve just told me the next time I saw you that you didn’t want to teach me. Which, by the way, I felt the same way.”

“No, it’s not that I don’t want to teach you. It’s just that you don’t seem interested.”

I pause, not at all understanding why he feels the need to clarify, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining this tension building under my skin. I take a breath, hoping to release it when I exhale. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

“You can tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you asked for guitar lessons in the first place, even though you weren’t interested in learning.”

The way he looks at me threatens me with the idea that heactuallycares. His brows are furrowed causing his forehead to crease. His eyes are deep set, and there is an intensity in his gaze that makes me want to give in and tell him my deepest, darkest secrets.

“It’s nothing,” I reply, unsure why I have this urge to tell him the truth.

“Then why are you keeping it a secret?” He playfully challenges, but the intensity remains, almost covering up the sadness that seems to be permanently laced in his irises.

I want to pretend I never let this encounter with Eddie happen, but, at the same time, I have to fight the urge to prolong this moment.

“I’m not. It’s just none of your business,” I say in a tone that saysthisis where this conversation will end before I unload my grief and trauma on my brother’s best friend who will most likely just report back to Mateo.

I stand up to throw out my now-finished coffee and grab Eddie’s almost-finished cup too, holding them against my stomach.

“Enough about me,” I say as I step past him to open up the cabinet under the sink where my trash can is. “Don’t worry about the lessons. I was going to let you know I didn’t need them anymore tomorrow at practice, so no big deal.” I close the cabinet and turn around, instantly feeling like the walls of the room are closing in on me, but not in a bad way.

Eddie was positioned at my kitchen island but right in front of my sink. When I went to throw out our cups, I thought I had enough room to avoid any and all contact, actually keeping a safe distance between us, but I was sorely mistaken.

Since he’s no longer resting against the island, when I turn around, I’m met with a broad chest and smooth, tan skin peeking out of a black V-neck. The smell of him, vanilla with a hint of spice, envelops me as I trace my eyes up Eddie’s throat, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, before my eyes find his lips in a shape I’ve never seen before.

Eddie Ramirez is smirking at me.

And I know that because my eyes are inches away from his lips.

I thought I’ve seen all of Eddie’s smiles. The soft ones, the wide ones, the bright ones, the dull ones, even the fake ones, but I have never seenthis.

I’m absolutely frozen as I follow the outline of his perfect lips to the dimple that has no business being on this chiseled of a face.

It should be illegal to have that strong of jaw line and that adorable of a dimple.

It isn’t fair.

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