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Seeing her right before I go to bed every night. Walking out of my room in the morning to find Chelsea in the kitchen, sleepy eyes and hair a mess.
I swallow past a sudden tightness in my throat.
“Really?” She bounces a little on the couch cushion, then winces.
I have a feeling she downplayed the pain from falling on her tailbone a few minutes ago. I want to ask, but I also want to avoid any conversations involving her butt.
Guys don’t talk about their best friend’s sister’s butts. It’s an unspoken, but very important, rule.
“I will be the best roommate ever. You won’t even know I’m here.” Chelsea giggles, a sound that tugs at something in my chest. “I mean, current mess excluded, of course.”
“Of course.”
I can’t help it. My eyes dart to the entryway. It looks like her bag exploded clothing—including underwear I tried not to notice—everywhere. There are broken ornaments in a heap and smears of blood on the wood floor. Plus tree needles on everything.
And even if she hadn’t swept in here like an agent of chaos, there is no way I’d ever be able to even walk in any apartment and not know Chelsea’s there. She occupies too much of my headspace and my heartspace to ever ignore.
Silence stretches between us for a moment. Then, she says, “If you’re okay with it, I guess we can both stay here. Separate bedrooms and separate bathrooms. It will be fine.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.
The same way I’m trying to convince myself it will be fine.
Willit be fine?
As I watch Chelsea blinking those bright blue eyes at me, I’m sure of very little. Least of all that I will survive living here with my best friend’s not-so-little-anymore sister. The one he’s made very clear through actions, if not words, is off limits.
“Why?” Chelsea asks. “Why wouldn’t he just tell us?”
I shrug. Long ago, I stopped fighting the way John runs the show in our friendship. At times, I think I’m too passive, but it also works for us.
Or maybe itworked. Until now.
Not just this manipulative apartment thing for whatever reason. No—for the last year or so, I’ve been struggling with our friendship. Wanting to ease out from under his influence. And a big reason is sitting right next to me on the couch.
If I ever want to do anything about my feelings for Chelsea, things with Johnhaveto change. And what better time to change them when he’s an ocean away? Especially now that Chelsea will be just a few feet away.
“Do you need help bringing things up?” I ask. “Or … cleaning up?”
Chelsea groans and drops her head in her hands. “I’m sorry I left such a mess. I wouldn’t have napped first if I knew you would be here. You must think I’m a disaster.”
“You’re not.”
Okay, she kind of is. But an adorable disaster. More like … a beautiful one.
Chaos seems to follow Chelsea wherever she goes. It’s not that she’s ditzy or clumsy. Definitely not ditzy. Maybe alittleclumsy. It’s more like she exists inside of a tornado of mild misfortune. But no matter what gets thrown her way in the storm, she comes out unscathed and still smiling.
“I’ll clean up.” She gets to her feet, limping a little as starts toward the kitchen. “Where does John keep the broom? Or vacuum?”
I place a hand on her arm, tugging her gently to a halt. I’m not sure why, but I haven’t been able to stop touching her since I walked inside John’s apartment.
John’s apartment.John.
Like I’ve been touching a hot stove and just registered the burn, I drop my hand. “Sit down. I’ll handle it.”
I stand, needing to move away, needing to do something—anything—to put some distance between Chelsea and me. But standing puts us almost chest to chest. Which is far worse. If I reached my arms around her back right now, I’d be holding her.
How will this work?I wonder. Chelsea and I, sharing in the same fifteen-hundred square foot loft.
It can’t. It won’t.
