Page 50 of Drop Three

It takes my brain a second to catch up and realize what’s happening before I’m shoving at Bodhi’s chest, attempting to get him off me. “Bodhi, what the hell? Get off.”

He immediately pulls back, showing me a small part of the man I care for is still here. But he doesn’t retreat—he hovers over me so we’re no longer touching. His arms are ground into the wall on the sides of my head, and I feel frustration tumbling off him.

Bodhi would never hurt me, I’m sure of it. I know him well enough to know that he’s upset and concerned about my safety. I chose to defy what he“requested,”and it pissed him off.

Simple as that.

With Bodhi being close to six foot seven to my five foot eleven, his face clears mine by close to a foot, requiring his eyes to lower to make eye contact with me. Good grief, he has the brightest emerald green eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like a pine tree and a gemstone made a baby. If I look close enough, which I won’t right now, I know I’ll find hidden swirls of a caramel toffee color amid the green ripples.

Bodhi’s piercing eyes hold mine. “I see what you’re doing, Navy, and it doesn’t sit well with me.”

I reply with a heavy breath, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I also don’t know why you’d think I give a single fuck whatsits wellwith you. You’re the one who drew this line first.”

I search his face for an emotion other than agitation and come up empty. Bodhi embodies impatience at the moment. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, but for some reason, when it comes to how he genuinelyfeelsabout me, he tucks them away like a closed book.

Right now, though, I couldn’t mistake his feelings if I tried. I’ve always thought it’s because he cares so deeply that he wears his emotions freely. If Bodhi is mad, you see it. If Bodhi is happy, you see it.

He’s unable to mask it.

Strangely, I understand that.

But it still doesn’t make sense as to why he can’t admit he cares—or once cared—for me as more than a friend. Maybe not now, but I know he did in Fiji. I could feel it. Yet, he lied to me and broke my fucking heart. Those were genuine feelings. I’m sure of it.

Although I can see what he’s feeling now, it still feels like a facade. I know he’s reacting like this toward me out of something unusual to what he usually feels—something past agitation.

“You’re not staying at that shit hole.”

I settle my purse on my shoulder, still caged between his arms, and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t remember asking you, Bodhi.”

“B. You call me B.” He exhales.

I reply, “I used to call you B. You’re Bodhi to me now.”

I hate that it’s true. B is the nickname for my friend, who I grew to care about in more ways than one—he was trusting and loving.

Bodhi is my brother’s best friend and myfriendby default.

Without warning, Bodhi’s forehead falls to my shoulder, and I feel his heart rate surge through his body, his breathing working overtime to settle itself.

I sense the moment he calms down. I’m settling him.

His demons are torturing him, and apparently, now he can add me into the mix. My hands fall to my sides as my purse drops to the ground, but I don’t care. I’ll stay still until he pulls away and can recollect himself.

He seems content going shipwreck against me for now.

I don’t hate it, but I should.

“I need you safe,” he breathes against me, worry seeping from him in waves. Goosebumps spread across my body, betraying my fight against resisting him. I won’t let him see the effect he still has on me, but I will show that I care in the best way I can. My hand lightly grips his bicep by my shoulder. I hesitate to touch him—the last time not working out in my favor.

“I’m safe. You don’t need to worry,” I reassure him as I hold my hand still on his arm, fighting not to nurture him. I’m trying, but it’s fucking killing me to be this close to him after everything.

After giving him a second of my care, I drop my hand and remain stagnant.

It must have been what I said because not five seconds pass before Bodhi flings himself from the wall and grips his hair ruthlessly like he’s being thrust into a battle he’ll never win.

His affliction is transparent and he’s indifferent to me seeing it.

A part of me wonders if it’s worth it. Is it worth it for him to crucify himself every day? Again, I don’t know half of what Bodhi has been through in his life, but I know there’s a lot more to it than me.

---