Page 58 of Made for Wilde

“Have fun at the concert,” I call back, already reaching to lock the door behind them.

The moment they’re gone, I sink onto the couch and exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

What was that? Adrian has always been a little too eager for my attention, but this felt different. More intense. More... deliberate.

My phone buzzes with a text.

DID ADRIAN JUST TRY TO KISS YOU??? WTF???

I roll my eyes and type back:

Kind of? On the cheek. It was weird.

Three dots appear immediately. She’s typing. WEIRD? It was fucking creepy. Has he done that before?

I consider the question. Adrian has always hovered on the edge of our friend group, more Sarah’s acquaintance than mine. But lately, he’s been finding reasons to be wherever I am and showing up at The Summit during my shifts, appearing at the beauty school to “just say hi,” offering rides when my car was in the shop.

I type: It’s fine. Just Adrian being Adrian. Awkward but harmless.

Even as I send it, I wonder if that’s true. The way he looked at me tonight didn’t feel harmless. It felt like something else entirely.

My phone buzzes again. Sarah: If you say so. But I’m keeping an eye on him. That was some serious stalker vibes.

I don’t respond. My mind is already drifting back to Koda, to what he said on the phone earlier.

I miss you too, baby. So fucking much it’s driving me crazy.

The memory alone is enough to make my body flush with heat.

Adrian and his weird behavior are the least of my problems right now.

I push away from the door and head to my bedroom. My work clothes feel suddenly suffocating. I strip them off, letting them fall to the floor in a heap. Then I head to the drawer where I keep my sleep clothes and pull out the smallest, mostcomfortable things I own: a thin cotton tank top that’s worn soft from too many washes and a pair of shorts that barely cover my ass.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look exactly like what I am.

A mess.

A sad, confused mess who can’t stop thinking about a man she can’t have.

I pad back to the living room, unable to settle. Energy buzzes beneath my skin like electricity looking for an outlet. I pace from the couch to the kitchen and back again, my fingers rake through my hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.

Koda and I will never work out. He’s way older than me, and he’s my dad’s best friend. Every path I can imagine leads to someone getting hurt, usually me.

My eyes land on the framed photos on the bookshelf. There’s one of me and Dad from last Christmas, his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us grinning at the camera. Another from my high school graduation, Dad looking so proud it makes my chest ache.

And one from years ago with Dad holding me on his shoulders at some fairground, Koda standing beside them with his arms crossed, looking younger but still intimidating.

Guilt washes over me in a wave so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet.

Dad trusts Koda completely. He’d be devastated if he knew what happened between us. What’s still happening in my head, in my heart, every minute of every day.

I turn away from the photos, unable to bear their silent judgment. My phone sits on the coffee table. I’m tempted to pick it up and call Koda back, to hear his voice again. Just once more. Just to get me through the night.

But what would I say?

That I can’t stop thinking about him? That every night this week I’ve touched myself while remembering his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body on mine? That I wake up reaching for him, the phantom sensation of his beard against my skin making me ache with want?

I toss the phone back onto the table and resume pacing. My thoughts spiral darker with each circuit of the room.