Page 17 of Just Between Us

Rolling my eyes, I shoot her a grin and play along with her farce, putting on my best Mr. Darcy. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but when a woman looks at a man in the manner you were just looking at me, it would be discourteousnotto assume she was on the verge of ruin.”

“But, listen,” I go on in my regular voice. She knows damn well something was there between us seconds ago. “Friends can still flirt. I won’t be able to help myself.”

Her brows knit. “What?”

I sweep a hand in her direction. “I mean, look at you.”

Her lips twitch into a smile.

“And let’s be honest,” I add. “You’ll probably flirt right back.”

“Oh, you think so?” she challenges, one brow arched.

“Absolutely. I’m too good looking for you not to.”

Finally, Cassie bursts out laughing, splashing me again. “You’re impossible. You know that, right?”

And just like that, we’re back to normal, laughing like every fiber of my being doesn’t want Cassie James. And the thought terrifies the shit out of me.

The followingweek passes in a flash while Liam and I keep a running text thread going. Nothing earth shattering or too deep. Surface level. He even keeps his flirting to a minimum, which sends a small pang of disappointment through me. I was full of shit the other day in the water. Something was absolutely about to happen, and had Liam not pumped the brakes, I’m not entirely sure how far it would have gone. Frankly, I feel like I deserve an Oscar after that performance, or a gold star at the very least.

But now we’re friends. And I get why Liam did that, which only deepens my respect for him. I overshared far more than I usually would with someone I just met. This is him giving me the space to focus on myself without a being an infuriatingly and no doubt delicious distraction, but a distraction nonetheless.

His texts are a steady stream of TikToks and pictures of Mutt, who looks like the most adorable little gremlin, while I send suggestions for true crime podcasts I think he should listen to. We even FaceTimed the night of the Powerball drawing, after which he listened to me gripe for a good five minutes about wasting twenty dollars. And sometimes our texts are entire conversations spoken only in GIFs.

I’ve filled my week with things a person who “has their shit together” might do. I traded my morning Froot Loops for a healthy green smoothie and a twenty-minute YouTube yoga session led by a woman who speaks in a lazy dreamlike voice about energy and auras. Following this is my daily schedule of client appointments and paperwork to transfer my license to Alabama. Late afternoons are spent with Austin and Penny if they’re available, and if they aren’t I hone my cooking skills, working my way through a cookbook called Table for One.

I even helped Austin plan a romantic dinner for Penny. He heads out later this week to finish the last leg of his tour and wanted to do something special for her before he goes.

When I’m not with the two of them, I’m wandering downtown, learning the faces and rhythms of the town. Back in college my roommate noticed somehow I’d always end up in a deep conversation listening while someone spilled their lives to me.

“There’s something about your face,” she’d said.

And once again, I’ve invited a deluge of intimacies from strangers. Earlier this week, from the couch at the bookstore, I listened to everything from financial woes, marital issues, and everything in between.

Now the weekend has rolled around again and my calendar is a blank slate. A glowing white square taunting me, daring me to text Liam to hang out—as a friend, obviously.Obviously. But I talk myself out of it. Instead, I sleep in as a reward for not couch rotting all week and wake ready to tackle the pigsty I’ve let this apartment become. Hair in a messy bun, I wash dishes, start a load of laundry, and put away my clean clothes.

I only stop cleaning long enough to make a sandwich with one of the farmers’ market tomatoes and grab a shower before diving back in. Cranking up an eighties playlist on Spotify, I lock in on my chores. Several hours pass without looking at my phone, which means I don’t realize it’s filled with a stream oftexts until I happen to pass by and catch the glow from the corner of my eye.

When I unlock it, the notifications hit me sharp with a sting.

I scroll through text after text from old acquaintances, my aunt, Tyler, and finally Liam. Each reads some version of the same thing:

A photo of Austin and Penny has leaked and gone viral.

My heart drops into my stomach. I stare at the image on my screen, studying the way Austin looks at Penny, like she’s the single ray of light he’s been searching for. If this weren’t a disgusting invasion of their privacy, it would be breathtaking, seeing my brother—both of them, really—look so happy.

Raised voices grab my attention, and I’m crossing the room with quick steps to peer out the window. Outside, Penny stands next to Austin’s truck, arms folded across her chest and Austin’s holding her phone, jaw clenched, his face a storm cloud of emotion.

Seeing that look on my brother’s face is both alarming and heartbreaking. Fame came with a thousand tiny blades he never saw coming—none of us did. And here it is again: one photo threatening to puncture the bubble he and Penny have existed in.

Penny pauses to take a phone call while Austin disappears inside. I can’t hear what Penny says, but she nods to whatever they’re saying on the other end. When Austin returns a few minutes later, they exchange a quiet conversation, Austin gives her a quick kiss and Penny heads down her driveway, leaving Austin standing alone, hands fisted at his side. If I had to guess, she’s probably going to her best friend Josie’s house. Maybe Josie’s perspective is what she needs right now, but I can’t leave my brother alone.

Slipping on my shoes, I’m racing down the steps and across the driveway right as the screen door to Penny’s house slams shut. Not bothering to knock, I enter to find Austin sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, shoulders caved in like theweight of this situation is too heavy to hold up. He looks devastated, gutted, and seeing him like this slices right through my own heart as well.

“Aussie?” I say, using my childhood nickname for him. I take tentative steps, as though approaching a frightened animal. “I saw the photo.”

Slowly, Austin lifts his head and scrubs a hand down his face. “It’s everywhere, Cass. Fucking everywhere.” His jaw works overtime. “The comments are a minefield of vitriol. Apathetic fuckers,” he bites out. “That was a private moment. Just ours. And now, with one single photo, it’s been ripped from our hands.”