Page 7

Wrong thing to say.

“Quick to temper!” she screeches. “How else do you expect me to react? You fucking left me, Cole!”

I tuck my hands into my pockets, quickly slipping into decade-old habits. She always hated it when I adopted a casual stance when she was ready to scream the house down.

“Ooh!” she growls and points at me. “You’re doing that on fucking purpose.”

“Doing what?”

She screams and swipes a pillow from the bed, launching it at my face. Another quickly follows. I dodge those two, and a third, and a fourth. “Asshole! Asshole!”

I raise my hands, batting away another incoming pillow. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Take your sorry”—she picks up a bigger pillow this time— “and shove it up your ass!” She throws it, and I let it connect with my chest, in the hope it’ll make her feel better.

It plops to the ground, and she pants, cheeks red.

God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her. My heart is racing, my blood is red fucking hot, like lightning is coursing through my veins. I didn’t realize how dead I was until this very moment.

“I’m sorry, Sunday.”

“Fuck you!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck. You. You. Fucking. Liar!” she screams at the ceiling, and I close the space between us. She points at me again. “I’ll scratch your fucking eyes out.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I know you.”

“I’ve changed!”

“You’d never hurt me, because you love me.”

A bold statement, but one she doesn’t deny—at first. “Loved. I used to love you. Now I⁠—”

“Now you what?” I interject, moving closer and sliding my hand to the side of her neck, forcing her to look at me. “Now you what, Sunday?”

I gaze into her eyes, those light blues with droplets of green. It’s suddenly ten years ago and I’m flicking up the visor on her helmet, desperate to see those eyes gazing back at me. My little backpack. The girl who would cheer at the top of her lungs as I wove through evening traffic, her arms tight around my waist. I’d stop at lookout points as soon as we came across one because as much as I loved the freedom of riding, I couldn’t keep my hands off her. And there’s nothing, and I mean nothing, hotter than watching the girl you love take off a helmet and shake out her hair.

“Stop that,” Sunday whispers, despite leaning into my touch.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like you used to. It isn’t fair. Not when I spent so long trying to get over you.”

Right. Sometimes I forget that while Sunday has been living her life, moving on like she deserved, my heart stayed in place. Sunday got her degree, went on dates, made friends, traveled. She made memories.

I made enemies.

The glaring difference in our lives is a cleaver threatening to already split us apart, so I refuse to let my hands leave her for fear she’ll never let me touch her again.

I slide my hand to the back of her neck, angling her head up and she moves closer, her hands flat on my chest. Goose bumps skitter across my skin, lifting the hairs on my arms, sending shivers down my spine.

This isn’t fair on her. I might not have orchestrated this, but I’m still dropping into her life, and I’m not allowed to do that anymore.