Page 27 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
I glance over my shoulder.Our eyes lock.Electricity passes between us.“Okay, first of all, I’m not retreating.I’m tactically withdrawing.”
“Mmhm.”His eyes don’t leave mine, and I feel exposed, like he can read every thought scrolling across my mind in neon.
“And second of all…” I trail off, turning the faucet off.Water drips, ticks against the stainless steel.“It’s easier to talk when your hands are busy.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”he says, quieter.“Talking?”
I look at him.Really look.
He’s still got flour on his sleeve.His hair’s messed up in that way it gets when he’s been thinking too hard or running his hand through it too many times.And his eyes are locked on mine like he’s not ready to let go of again.
“We’re talking,” I say.
And I hate how my voice cracks on it, splitting the word into jagged pieces.But that must be a sign for him to move.To give me space, when I don’t know if that’s what I want.
“I should go to bed.Long day tomorrow.”He steps aside.Not fast.Just… enough that I feel it.
“I’ll check on Dorothy tomorrow morning before leaving if you want,” he says.
“She’ll appreciate it.I know, I do.”My pulse pounds in my throat, in my wrists, in places I don’t want to acknowledge.
His eyes hold mine a beat too long, saying what his words don’t: I knew you too, once.
“Night, Foster,” he says softly.
“Night, Harrison.”The name feels strange in my mouth.Too formal for someone whose T-shirt I still have, whose laugh I can conjure perfectly in the middle of the night.
He waits.Like he thinks I might say more.Like he’s giving me one more chance.
But I can’t.My throat closes around words I don’t trust myself to say.
So I watch him walk away.Each step creating more distance, a tangible reminder of all the space that’s grown between us over seven years.
Then I sit back down at the table.
And stare at the empty kitchen like it might have the answers I’ve been trying not to ask.Like it might tell me why, even after everything, my body still leans toward him like he’s gravity.
By the time I get back upstairs, the dogs are no longer content and happy.I bring the carrier inside that Adam left in front of my door.
And Dorothy won’t settle.
She’s pacing in slow, halting loops by the foot of the bed.Limping enough to make my stomach knot.Then she circles back and whines at my feet, like I’m the only thing holding her together.Her nails click against the hardwood, a nervous metronome marking time.
I crouch beside her, feel her trembling under my palm.“You’re okay,” I whisper, checking her paw for the fifth time.The pad feels warm, slightly tender.“You just don’t like change.Same, honestly.”
She huffs dramatically, which I think is a sign of agreement, but then the moment I stand to grab my phone from the charger across the room, she yips.A sad little sound.Wounded.Accusatory.It pierces straight through me.
I stop.
She stops whining.
I take a step.
She limps dramatically toward me like she’s in a one-dog opera titled The Betrayal of Eve Foster.Her brown eyes follow my every move.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, heart pounding against my ribs.“You’re messing with me.”
She’s not, though.Not entirely.
