Page 6 of Heartstrings & Horseshoes

In his one-bedroom apartment, it goes without saying we’ll be sharing his queen-size bed. His parents never allowed boy-girl sleepovers, but I’ve fallen asleep in Connor’s arms more times than I can count. And it’s my favorite place to be.

Lithe back muscles ripple beneath his thin cotton shirt as he lifts several of my boxes at once and carries them to his bedroom. He packed them, so he knows better than I do where they need to go.

A pang of longing hits me in the stomach as he walks away. My best friend is the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Just shy of six-feet-tall, he’s the perfect height to kiss the crown of my head.

Due to lucky genetics, Connor’s golden tan all-year round. He never burns and doesn’t resemble a Victorian ghost in the winter like I do.

His hair matches his skin-tone perfectly, a dirty blonde streaked from time in the sun he wears in the most fuck-me hairstyle. It’s buzzed to his temples, with thick, straight hair long on top and is either pushed back by running his strong fingers through the strands or hanging playfully over one eye.

I’ve touched his hair plenty of times to fix it, or to comfort him. But I’ve never gripped it in the throes of passion the way my fingers ache to.

His body is immaculate, tight and toned—but not bulky, sculpted from hard labor working on the highway.

From his eighteenth birthday forward, he’s covered himself with a collage of rainbow-colored art. Tattoos rise from the collar of his shirt and snake around both arms to the backs of his hands. Ink covers his chest, and his back is a breathtaking collage of vibrant images. It wasn’t long ago his tattoo artist filled in the blank spaces on his back to weave the pieces into one cohesive back-piece.

I’ve traced the lines of every single tattoo on hot summer days when he’s shirtless, massaging his back after a hard shift, or while we watch movies together. I know his upper body like a map.

How desperately I’ve wanted to grip his shoulders and kiss him. To rake my nails down his back while he makes love to me. To kiss and lick the tattoos on his neck and chest with nothing between us.

But it’s never been like that between us, and it never will be. He’s always seen me as a little sister. Not as a potential partner. Not as a woman.

Based on the girls he’s always dated, I’m clearly not his type. He only goes for girls with dark hair and eyes. Unfortunately for me, Connor is my only type.

I’d never jeopardize our friendship by revealing my nearly two-decade-long crush on my best friend. Some things aren’t meant to be.

But I’ll take any version of a relationship with Connor he’ll give me. And that’s always been as the best of friends.

We’ve been inseparable since the day he found me crying in the dirt. Dad went on a bender and Mom was stuck at home with us girls. Taking care of us was her least favorite activity. Izzy was locked in her bedroom, grounded for some asinine reason when Mom spilled beer on my pretty yellow dress. I’d found it in the donation bin near the market and cleaned it the best I could. Mom was furious her beer was wasted, and she screamed at me to get out, over and over again.

I didn’t want to leave Izzy, but she was safe behind her locked door. I ran as fast as my little legs could take me. I tripped on a rock and skinned my knees right before I got to the nice sidewalk outside the trailer park that led to town.

I tried not to cry, I really did. But my life was a lot for a seven-year-old to endure, and I collapsed under the weight of my sadness.

That’s where Connor found me. Dressed in nice new clothes, with a shiny two-wheel bike, inviting me to his home for cookies and lemonade.

I’ve loved Connor since before I knew what it meant to love. But he’s only ever seen me as a friend, and that’s okay.

Or so I’ve desperately tried to convince myself over the years.

And being the world-class friend he is, I find myself here. About to live with my walking-testosterone sex-god best friend, knowing I’ll be sleeping against his bare chest every night. Seeing parts of his life I’ve never been privy to, private things like the way he brushes his teeth, and when he changes his bedsheets.

Oh god. How often does he change his bedsheets? Does he have women here? What am I supposed to do if he brings a date home? Sit in the living room with noise cancelling headphones and a blindfold on? Or does he go to their place? Does he spend the night with them? Or will he roll into bed with me in the early hours of the morning, covered in their perfume?

I’m going to be sick.

4

I’m unloading a box of Delilah’s bathroom products slower than necessary. I need a minute to breathe.

In the past couple of hours, I aired my best friend’s dirty laundry out to her sister, demanded she live with me, sorted through rubble from the break-in at the trailer, packed her belongings, and brought them to my 600 square foot, one-bedroom apartment.

My jaw clenches involuntarily and the tips of my ears burn hot mulling over the repercussions of my actions. I finally have Delilah all to myself. She’ll be in my bed every night. But most importantly, she’s safe after all these years and I don’t have to worry myself sick wondering if she’s okay.

I get unfettered access to hang out with my best friend whenever I’m home.

In no way will this become my own personal hell—living in intimate quarters with the star of my every fantasy but not being able to touch her or tell her how I feel.

Because how I feel is far more than friendly.