Page 14 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
I drag my gaze back to the group, forcing the corners of my mouth up. School my features into something breezy, something untouched.
I can play the part. I’ve done it before.
If Nick thinks for one second that he can still get under my skin, it’s over. I won’t give him that.
Deep breath. Shoulders back. Just another performance in pastel chiffon—except the audience is full of people who know how the last act ended.
Chapter six
ETHAN
Itell myself I was just observing. That it was innocent. Casual. That the way my eyes kept tracking Maya as she moved through the party was habit. Curiosity.
But that’s a lie, and I’m not even trying that hard to believe it.
She was magnetic without trying to be. Drifting through clusters of conversation with an ease I’m a little envious of. A glass of wine in one hand, the other gesturing subtly when she spoke. Her voice was low, clear, never rushed. Poised. Polished. She’s clearly done this a million times before.
I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. I watched her lean in toward Danielle, listening carefully when the bride-to-be seemed worked up over something. And that smile… soft, encouraging, honest.
It made something in me ache.
Because I wanted her to smile like that at me.
She didn’t flirt, not the way I do. Not with clever lines or practiced timing. There was no performance to her. Somehow, she lingered. She left a mark by being in the room.
Now, hours later, I’m alone in my apartment with the windows cracked open to the night and the city humming low beneath me. The sketchpad rests across my lap, balanced on one knee. The lo-fi mix I started during dinner still plays in the background, but it might as well be static. I can barely hear it over the memory of her laugh—sharp and sudden and real. Unpolished. Unscripted.
I close my eyes for a second and it comes back in waves—how her collarbone caught the light, the way her eyes narrowed slightly when someone made a joke she didn’t quite approve of. That little tilt of her head when she was curious. The curve of her lips when she was amused.
My pencil moves without thought.
First a curve, the delicate line of her jaw. Then the slender slope of her neck, the proud, defiant tilt of her chin. I sketch the shape of her eyes, trying to get it right—the way they held so much at once: sharpness and warmth, intelligence and restraint.
I draw her mouth next. Not just the shape, but themoment—the way it looked when she smiled at Danielle like they were the onlytwo people in the world. I sketch the fall of her dress, the way it clung to her like it had been made for her body. Like it knew her secrets and was content to keep them.
My strokes get bolder. Less precise. More… visceral.
She’s not even here, and still, it feels like she’swatchingme. Or maybe I just want her to be.
Maybe I want her closer.
My hand slows. My breathing shifts. The image on the page is rough but unmistakable—Maya, the way I remember her. The way Ifeelher.
I stare at the sketch for a bit too long.
My fingers twitch around the pencil. I set it down, slowly, carefully, like I’m afraid any sudden movement will break the spell.
The air in the apartment feels warmer. Closer. It’s pressing in against my skin, making me hyper-aware of every sensation—the brush of fabric against my thighs, the pulse low in my stomach, the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to the sleeve of my shirt from when we hugged hello.
God. That hug.
It had been brief. Polite. Barely anything, really, but her body had fit against mine like a puzzle piece.
I lean back against the couch, the sketchpad sliding to the floor without protest. I close my eyes and let the image of her fill in all the blank space—the way she looked, poised and gorgeous and entirely out of reach. The soft part of her upper lip. The slight catch in her breath when she laughed too hard. The way she touched her neck when she was thinking.
I imagine her saying my name. Not casual, not friendly. I imagine it low and breathless, like a confession pulled from between her teeth. Like shewantsme.
My hand slips beneath the waistband of my sweatpants without ceremony, without shame. I’m already half-hard, the arousal not sharp or urgent butheavy.
