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17

MILLER

K it used to be addicted to cherry popsicles. That summer in the Hamptons she wrote a note on the box with a Sharpie— Eat cherry at your own peril. In turn, I made a point of pretending to pull a cherry popsicle out of the freezer every time she was in the room.

I texted the island’s concierge to get us some last night. If that’s not a sign that I’m fucking whipped, I don’t know what is.

Leaving Tanzania was the easiest decision I’ve ever made in my life because I want to step in and protect her from all the shit that gets thrown her way. I want to be the one who tells Ulrika no when she calls asking Kit to intercede on her behalf, the way I know she still fucking is because if she used Kit as a crutch ten years ago, there’s not a chance she stopped.

I want to be the one who shields her from a photographer when she doesn’t want to be seen.

I want to be the one who gets to kick Blake’s ass for that text he sent last night, and I’m going to be the one who does it, whether she approves or not.

I’m in so far over my head, and I always have been…for a woman who was my girlfriend’s sister. For a woman who is just getting out of one relationship and still carries another man’s ashes with her because she can’t let him go.

A woman convinced her sister would never forgive her if anything happened with me.

She smiles at me over her shoulder, in a bikini that covers none of her. The wind is blowing that mess of gold hair across her face, and her nose has three tiny new freckles I haven’t seen before. There’s something in her eyes, something very, very adult.

I promised her nothing would happen and therefore nothing will, but Jesus Christ, she’s not making it easy on me.