Page 72 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

Who does that and means it?

I rub the spot where his finger had been, which—congratulations to me—just makes it worse. I can still smell him in the air, that unfair combination of clean soap and summer heat and something I used to lose myself in when things got too hard.

Which is also ironic. Because he’s what made everything hard.

I exhale shakily and force my legs to move, padding barefoot into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, like hydration is going to solve any of this. I catch my reflection in the microwave door and wince. My tank top is practically see-through. Amy’s fault. She insisted it was“just enough effort to be innocent.”

Right.

Real innocent. Especially the part where I let him in.

Why did I let him in?

Because he looked at me like that. Because he touched me like that. Because even after everything, some part of me still wants to believe him.

God, I’m an idiot.

And yet…

I take a sip of water and glance toward the stairs.

Still quiet.

Still tempting.

He’s up there, in the bathroom. Probably pretending to look at pipes. He knows something. I can feel it in the way he looked at me.

But he didn’t push.

Not yet.

He said he still loves me. That he never stopped. That he wants us back. Wants to try again. And some masochistic part of me—probably located between my thighs—is already halfway sold.

I press the cool glass to my cheek, willing my body to chill the hell out.

Then I hear it. The faint creak of floorboards upstairs. The sound of his footsteps. The shift in air pressure as he moves.

I close my eyes.

And wonder—for one hot, insane second—what would happen if I went up there too.

“I think I’m pregnant now.”

I startle at the voice. I’d almost forgot Amy was here. I turn to see her fanning her face.

“You two have always had porn worthy chemistry.”

I snap back to reality. “Ames!” I hiss. “This is a disaster! What are we going to do?”

“I think you’re going to have to distract him You need to distract him while I figure out our next move.”

“Distract him? With what? A dance number?” I throw my hands up in frustration. “I can’t just waltz around like everything’s fine while there’s a corpse in my car and a hole waiting to be dug in my backyard!”

“You could just distract him with sex, maybe that would chill you the fuck out.”

“I dare you to find me someone who could stay chill at a time like this!”

“Um, hello!” She gestures to herself.