But I’m rooted here, resenting Kate for her unique ability to get under my skin and drive me up the fucking wall, loathing myself for not being able to stop myself from responding to her, no matter how hard I try.
And now I’m staring at her mouth, soft, parted; at her throat, working in a swallow. Kate’s eyes are on my mouth, too, her breathing harsh. And then her hand settles over my chest, right beside my pounding heart. Air rushes out of me.
Her hand curls into the fabric. With surprising strength, she shoves me back.
“As much of a pleasure as this has been,” she says, her voice pinched, her cheeks pink with anger, “I think it’s time for me to do what Christopher says I do best.”
Without another word, she storms out of the kitchen toward the front of the house, by the sounds of it, struggling with her coat and her bag, thanks to her one-handed state.
When the door slams behind her, it’s so hard, the windows rattle.
? THREE ?
Kate
I’m a damn good photographer, but my truly elite skill is avoidance. I’ve passed the last thirty-six hours in a blur of movie marathons and social media rabbit holes to distract myself from thinking about how badly Christopher’s and my familiar antagonistic cycle spun out of control.
We have our ritual. I poke Christopher. He snaps back. Christopher provokes me. I hiss and flex my claws. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
But this was more.
I’ve never felt him watching me like he did in the kitchen, like his gaze could burn through my clothes, straight down to my skin. I’ve never sunk my hand into his shirt and felt air rush out of him, as if I had the power to make him do that. I’ve never seen him cage me in, fire burning in that amber gaze.
You were always needed.
A shiver slips down my spine as I remember Christopher saying that. I scrunch my eyes shut against the memory of him, close and intense and . . . so . . . infuriating, then take a gulp of my coffee.
Which is scalding hot.
“Fucking hell.”
“Good morning to you, too, KitKat!” The door shuts behind Bea as she marches into the apartment, cheeks pink from the brisk autumn air, her hair up in a dark ballerina bun swirled with the bleached blond that colors its ends.
She plops beside me on the sofa. I hold away my mug as the coffee inside it swells and dips, nearly sloshing over the edge.
“Sorry about that,” she says, setting on the coffee table a paper bag that smells knee-weakening wonderful. “I come bearing doughnuts.”
I stare at the bag as guilt curdles in my stomach. Since coming home, I’ve managed to show up unannounced at my sisters’ apartment for an extended stay with no money to put toward rent （yet）; I’ve had a throw-down fight with Christopher that took a giant crap on the Thanksgiving festivities in front of her and her new boyfriend; and from the moment I stormed out of Mom and Dad’s house and rode the train back into the city, I’ve been avoiding my sister entirely.
In other words, I’ve been a shit sibling. And what’s Bea done? Brought me doughnuts.
Sighing, I meet her eyes. “Thanks for this, BeeBee.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiles. Then she digs into the paper bag and pulls out the only thing that outstrips my love of pumpkin pie.
“So many doughnuts,” I whisper, peering in.
“Boston cream. Cake with sprinkles. Maple glaze with facon bits—”
“Hell, yes.” I wrench a maple and facon bits doughnut from the bag and promptly take a hearty bite that bursts with the perfect balance of salty-sweet. “So good.”
Settling back into the sofa, Bea bites into her cake doughnut. After another bite, then swallow, she glances my way. “So. You doing okay? You disappeared on Thanksgiving and haven’t surfaced since.”
“I’m sorry for being scarce, BeeBee. I needed some time to cool off. And I’m sorry for what happened on Thanksgiving.”
She stares down at her doughnut and picks off a sprinkle. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is.” I set down my doughnut and take her hand, my thumb tracing the edge of her beautiful tattoo sleeve, where a leafy vine curls along her wrist. “It’s been hard for you and Jamie, and I didn’t make it any easier on Thanksgiving. I lost my cool and made things uncomfortable.”
Which isn’t unheard of for me. I’m aware that I seem to feel things more intensely than most, and I know I have a short fuse, but awareness and knowing don’t always translate into preventing a behavior, something I’m grateful Bea understands.