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“It is better.” I grin at her and shake my head. Steinbeck has been the subject of many debates between us “East of Eden isn’t even original—it’s a parable for the Cain and Able story.”
She scoffs at me. “No story is original, Conner. Originality doesn’t come from plot. Originality comes from prose. Voice.”
“Prose?” I laugh out loud. A real laugh. One that doesn’t feel shitty or like I’m trying to hurt her with it. “Did they teach you that fancy word at Sara Lawrence?”
She narrows her eyes at me, cheeks flushed, but I can tell she isn’t mad. Not really. “As a matter of fact, they did, Dr. Gilroy.”
And that’s what we do. We talk about books. Argue. Laugh. Agree. Tease. Until she’s somehow migrated her way to where I’m sitting, and she’s got her head on my shoulder and I’m reading to her.
“I miss this.”
I stop reading and look down at her to find her mouth inches away from mine, dark brown eyes wide and unsure.
“Me too.” My voice sounds heavy. Low. My gaze dips to her mouth and I watch as the tip of her tongue brushes along her upper lip, licking her freckle.
My freckle.
“I want...” I wait for it, my heart pounding in my ears, mouth so dry, it feels like I’m chewing on sand. Whatever she wants, I’ll give it to her.
Anything for Henley.
Anything.
Even if it means ripping out my own heart and serving to her on a silver platter.
“I want to start over.”
I feel my face fold in on itself a little. “What?” I don’t know why or how she keeps surprising me. If I’ve learned anything about her over the years, it’s that she’s the one thing I can’t figure out. The one puzzle I can’t solve.
She licks her lips again and I have to swallow the groan that wells up in my throat. “I mean…” Her gaze darts away but she forces it back to mine. Keeps it there. “I did this wrong.” She shakes her head when I open my mouth to speak. “I—I thought what I wanted was a sexual relationship with you.”
“It’s not?” Jesus, I’m literally the smartest man, living on the Eastern seaboard and I can barely string two coherent words together to form a sentence. I open my mouth again. I have no idea what’s going to come out, but I open it, anyway. Again, she interrupts me.
“What I want is this.” She gestures a hand between us. “The way it used to be, before I messed everything up.”
Hearing her say it, I’m both hurt and relieved. How’s that for a total mindfuck.
“That was me.” The last place I want to be is here, having this conversation, but here is where I am and I’m not walking away without saying what I need to say. Not again. “I’m the one who forgot what this is and what it isn’t. I’m the one who jumped track and made everything weird. That’s on me, not you.”
“I’m not talking about the other night—” She sighs, shaking her head. “I’m talking about that night. When we were kids. The night I tried to get you to—”
I kiss her.
Lower my mouth to hers and turn toward her enough to slip my hand into her hair. Hold her to me because I’m afraid of what she’ll say if I let her go. I’m afraid she’s going to tell me that she never really wanted me. That she’d built up a silly fantasy of me in her head and the reality—the ridiculously fucked-up reality—of what I am wasn’t what she signed up for. So, I kiss her. Until her lids flutter shut and she sighs softly into my mouth because if she’s going to end this then I want something to hold on to. Something to remember.
The time I kissed Henley.
I feel the shift. This is it. The place where she goes warm and achy. Where I put my hands on her and she moans. Where I stretch her out on my floor and get her naked. Where I do everything and anything she wants me to do.
But, regardless of what her body is telling me, that’s not what she wants.
Not anymore.
I break the kiss, pulling away from her just enough to look her in the eye. “We’ll start over.” I smile at her. “Just—” I swallow hard to clear my throat. “Just friends, okay?” I say, even though it kills me.
Fifty-four days.
That’s all I have left.