Page 32 of The Lovers
“Did you take it out then?”
“No, it’s still in my nose,” she quips. “Entombed.” She twists so I can see the dark dot of her scar. “Hurt like a motherfucker to put it back in so I never got the nerve.”
“When?”
“Freshman year of college.”
Where did you go? What did you study? How many girls have you kissed since me?The questions flood my brain with curiosity. A dangerous temptation. I take a step away from the heat of her breathwarming the curve of my cheek. Immediately, the chill of the night air sobers my thoughts.
“Kit.” My name on her tongue; gods, let me crumble.
“I wasn’t ready,” I say, somehow with no waver in my voice. She lets out a sharp breath, the deepening cold turning it to smoke.
“So you just ghosted your best friend?” Her jaw clenches, moisture making her eyes shiny. “You just saidwish you well, like I meant nothing to you.”
I was falling apart, I want to say to her. But the way her features have sharpened makes me think there’s no excuse she’ll take. She’s got daggers for eyes and razor-sharp teeth. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Fail.” Her voice is a searing hot sword.
The door to the yurt opens. Freya Dan pokes her head out, looking around the immediate area. Julia follows my attention, seeing the moment Freya’s eyes lock on me and she waves, the floaty fabric of her sleeve resembling a flag.
Cease-fire, surrender, thank you, Universe.
“My cue,” I say.
“Convenient.”
I’m careful not to brush against her as I pass, and she doesn’t move into my way to stop me, but I feel her eyes follow me all the way up to the yurt even though her body lingers behind.
She’s with me, tugging at the chains around my heart, begging me to let it out of the cage.
Chapter Twelve
Julia
Every instinct says to reach out.
Every instinct is clearly wrong.
I look up, blinking back tears. This is stupid, unprofessional—everything about my behavior tonight, from getting on that bus to following her outside. I’m not thinking straight—ba-dum-bum—the irony of the turn of phrase almost makes me let out a desperate laugh.
Kit isn’t my problem. She isn’t someone for me to show concern, care, or tenderness to.
She is just a woman I once knew. Clearly, she’s still perfectly fine with playing pretend. This weekend isn’t about us reconnecting. I shouldn’t be entertaining the idea even in the vaguest sense.
I’mnotentertaining the idea.
I’m just trying to make sure the two women I used to know don’t inadvertently ignite a fire in this high-profile wedding I’m trying to execute with perfection.
That’s professional. That’s the Julia Kelley way.
I’m still holding the cacao cup in my hand, the bottom coatedwith remnants of the creamy chocolate liquid. I don’t know what “heart opening” is supposed to feel like, and yes, I’m dubious that there is more to this whole thing than the physiological response created by the theobromine, but my skin feels slick, pulse all quick, and even more frightening, I can’t shake the urge to push, brush, taunt the edges of Kit’s buttons until I find the one that unwinds an apology from her lips.
She wasn’t ready. But I would have waited.
If that’s my heart opening, then please shutter the windows, lock all the doors, and close for the season. The only solution is to ignore all of my desires, impulses, and instincts, go back inside and play pro. I am still in control here; that hasn’t changed despite what my questionable behavior suggests.
I shake the last bit of cacao into my mouth like this is some kind of dare.
