“Good,” he murmurs before reaching out and scooping me into his lap to straddle him. Shocked by the public display, I quickly glance around and am stopped by his gentle palm when he cups my face. “I can fucking do anything with you as long as you’re looking at me the way you are right now.” His expression arrests me, keeping me immobile as his voice and words reverberate through me.
“Easton,” I manage to breathe out as the world around us inevitably fades away in contrast to him.
“I called you the second time because I remembered how this felt, and I wanted to feel this way again. It’s that simple.”
“It’s so not simple,” I argue breathlessly as I move to get up, and he pins me gently with his palms covering my thighs.
“Then it’s time for a fight,” he declares roughly.
“We don’t have to fight, we agreed—”
“No. You decided. I allowed it because you could have turned me down flat yesterday, but you didn’t. You didn’t turn me down knowing full well that I would want to—and try to—kiss you…touch you…fuck you.” He grips my chin tightly before lifting it to brush his finger along my neck. “I don’t have the urge to call my friends and share my highs and lows. I don’t miss them with an ache so deeply etched inside that it keeps me awake at night, and I sure as fuck don’t drive for hours in hopes they’ll spend a few days with me. And I definitely don’t jerk off to the image of them coming on my cock. I don’t feel this way for my friends, Natalie—close or otherwise—so I dare you to call me your close friend again,” he warns. “I fucking dare you.”
“It’s all we can be, okay?” I whisper with a clear shake in my voice.
“Well, if friendship is all you’re offering, you’re a shitty friend to start with because those I claim as friends would have at least answered the goddamned phone.”
“I explained this before I left Seattle. You didn’t read the emails—”
“You mean the emails that are nearly three decades old and might not even hold any relevance to any of us here and now?”
I shake my head. “You don’t know what you’re saying. It still haunts me. Every day. Maybe if you read them—”
“It’s history, Natalie.”
“It’s our parents who almost married each other’s history, Easton.” I fire back. “If you would just read them—”
“I look at you, and honestly, I just don’t give a fuck. It physically fucking hurt me when you slammed that door on me.”
“It hurt me, too. But please understand, I still can’t do this with you.”
“You can do this with me, but you won’t. There’s a difference, and I would drop it, but I know how you feel about me. You don’t want this limited to friendship any more than I do.”
“Don’t presume to tell me how I feel,” I snap.
His nostrils flare as he lifts us both, his eyes wreaking havoc even as he gently sets me on my feet. “I don’t have to fucking presume shit. You already told me, and even if you hadn’t, I’d still know.”
“What do you mean?”
He takes a step away before pulling out his wallet and tossing a few bills on the table. Eyes cast down, he lingers where he stands for a long beat, seeming to focus on the pattern of the tiles on the table before he slowly lifts his gaze back to me. It’s strikingly hollow. The distance between now and seconds ago has my stomach dropping. There’s not a trace of warmth to be found. He’s checking out. “Fuck it, let’s go.”
“What do you mean fuck it? Or are you really saying fuck me?”
He swipes the keys to the SUV from the table and turns abruptly, his biting words stinging repeatedly as I softly call his name. Ignoring me, he rips open the chipped blue fenced door to the patio and stalks through, striding away in the direction we parked the car. Feeling condemned, I follow him to the parking lot, juggling our bags until he relieves me of them before shutting me into the truck.
The ride home is painfully silent, aside from the blaring music. We’re now in this horrible place—at such painful odds, which has me panicking because our time is once again running out. The panic increases with every mile we get closer to reality and my window alone with him is cut short. Because tomorrow, I’ll be stuck in the same place I was two months ago—replaying our time together, obsessing over him, his touch, the way he looks at me, his whispered words, mourning what could have been. A cycle that I can’t bear to think about repeating but can’t do a thing about.