Page 24 of How Sweet It Is (Willow Shade Island #3)

I climb on my motorcycle and stare at the pavement as if it would give me some answers. What just happened? She kissed me back. I know she did. That was not a one-sided kiss. So why do I feel like a fool?

My heart hammers as I slide my helmet on. I’ve kissed a lot of girls. I’ve walked away from every one of them without a second thought. But this was different. Amelia’s different. I thought she cared as much as I did.

I obviously thought wrong.

I kick-start my engine. It growls to life beneath me, loud and angry, like it’s feeling everything I don’t want to say out loud. I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to move. I need the speed of my motorcycle to outrun this crushing feeling in my chest.

I find myself on the bridge to the mainland.

It stretches out before me like a lifeline, long and empty.

There’s no traffic, which is good. I’d just be tempted to speed around the cars holding me back.

I twist the throttle harder than I should.

Wind tears at my jacket, my skin, my thoughts, whisking them away in the night air.

Wind punches into my chest and strips the breath from my lungs, but I keep going. Faster. Harder. Like I can outrun the weight pressing down on me. The numbness I’ve been trying to shake since she turned our kiss into a joke.

That kiss.

By the time I roll off the bridge, I’m not thinking anymore.

Just moving. Letting muscle memory guide me past strip malls and fast-food signs, past places I’ve never really cared about.

As I slow, I find myself at the dance studio on the corner, lit up and alive.

The windows glow warm and golden, music coming faintly through the glass.

I stop without thinking and go inside. I shed my jacket and scan the dance floor.

Several couples are gliding across the polished wood.

A group of women are hanging out by the speakers, and I recognize them immediately—the regulars.

They’re all in their fifties and sixties, and we have an understanding.

I flirt with them, they get to feel young again, and I get to dance all night.

I don’t even make it to the back wall before I’m swept into a dance by Beverly.

She’s in her mid-sixties with eyes like firecrackers.

She calls me “sugar” and winks every time we spin.

This continues as I dance with Janice then Ruth.

Then Sandy with the leopard-print scarf and a raspy laugh that gives away her smoking habit.

I smile. I dance. I charm.

And the whole time, I’m lying to myself.

Because every song, every step, every time someone’s hand finds mine, it’s not them I’m feeling. It’s her.

It’s Amelia’s fingers curling into my shirt. Amelia’s laugh, all breathless and surprised as I spun her around her apartment. Amelia’s lips on mine, turning my whole stupid world sideways.

I came to forget her. Move my body, lose myself in the music. That’s the way it’s always worked before. But not tonight. Amelia is everywhere I turn.

The song ends. The regulars clap. Someone squeezes my arm and asks if I’ll stay for the next one.

I smile and say yes because I don’t know where else to go.

I stay at the studio until it closes at eleven thirty that evening. My eyes are blurry as I go home, the speed doing nothing for me. I can’t get that kiss out of my head no matter what I do.

It’s almost midnight by the time I park the bike in front of my building. The last swing tune is still ringing in my ears, like it’s trying to be cheerful for both of us. I’m tired—bone-deep, soul-worn tired—and it’s got nothing to do with the dancing.

I dismount, already regretting my life choices.

I’ve got four hours before I need to be up kneading dough and prepping trays.

Brilliant plan, Levi. Real solid coping skills.

Irritated, I kick a rock, and it flies into a window, clinking against the dark glass.

I cringe, hoping I didn’t wake anyone up.

I take the stairs two at a time, half out of spite. I don’t need Amelia in my head. Don’t need to remember the way she kissed me like she meant it, right before laughing it off like it was some kind of joke.

I reach the landing and freeze. There’s a light on inside my apartment. My stomach drops.

I didn’t leave any lights on. Every muscle in my body tenses. I check my door, and it’s unlocked. Someone’s in my house. What do I do? I grab the neighbor’s flowerpot and twist the knob, my heart kicking into gear again like it’s still stuck in overdrive from the bridge.

I push the door open, ready for… what, exactly? I don’t know. A burglar? A squatter? I raise the pot above my head and enter.

Then I see a duffel bag by the couch, shoes kicked off near the door, and a Micah-sized lump under the blanket on the couch.

Right. I told Micah he could crash at my apartment.

Micah’s eyes fly open, and he screams, startling me. I step backward and trip over his shoes, the flowerpot flying. Dirt and flower petals rain down on me as the pot crashes to the tile entryway and cracks into a zillion pieces.

“Sheesh, Micah,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest like that’ll get my heart to stop racing.

Micah blinks at me. “I opened my eyes and you’re standing over me with a flowerpot like you’re about to murder me. What was I supposed to do?”

“I thought you were a burglar or something. I said to text if you’re coming over.”

“I did text you.”

I pull out my phone. There’s one unread text telling me Micah’s on the way. “Oh.”

Micah tucks his legs under him. “Sorry, my dormmates are having a party tonight. I couldn’t stand all the people, so I came here.”

I get the broom out of the closet and start sweeping up the mess. I carefully remove the budding plant and place it in a mason jar with some of the dirt. I’ll have to get my neighbor a new flowerpot later. As I sweep, I give Micah the side-eye. “You’d rather be here, alone, than at a dorm party?”

“Yeah.”

I look around my really boring apartment. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Micah runs a hand over his long hair.

“It was fun at first. But then all the people stuffed into our dorm room kinda made me go crazy. It was like I couldn’t breathe, and my skin got all itchy.

People tried to talk to me, and my head just buzzed.

I couldn’t speak. I had to get out of there. ”

I stop sweeping to stare at him. “How long have you had this problem around people?”

“It’s been happening since I went to college. That’s why I came to talk to you at the bakery.” Micah looks at me like I haven’t been listening, and maybe he’s right.

I feel bad for thinking it was just normal going-away-from-home jitters. “You might have a social anxiety disorder. You should talk to a doctor about it.”

Micah exhales and shakes his head. “It’s just nerves. I can handle it.”

I dump the dustpan full of dirt and broken pottery and continue to clean up my mess. “Sounds like you tried to handle it and had to leave.”

Irritation crosses his features. “You know, college is a lot harder than I thought it would be, and I thought you of all people would understand.”

Ouch, that stung. I hold up a hand in surrender. “Sorry, man. I do get it. But I just think that?—”

“I don’t need you to think for me. I need a couch I can crash on.”

“Sure.” I dump the last of the dirt into my kitchen trash can then walk into the living room. “Just think about what I said. There’s help out there for what you’re dealing with.”

“I can deal with it just fine,” he says, grumbling.

“All right. Good night.”

I enter my bedroom and shut the door. Great. Now I have Micah and Amelia in my head. I just want to go to sleep.