Page 51 of Until August

“I’ll bet.” His gaze drifted to the TV where John Cusack was holding a boombox over his head with Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” playing. The iconic finale ofSay Anything. “What’s this guy doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s making a grand romantic gesture.”

August snorted. “You must have pretty low standards if you think that’s a grand gesture. He’s holding a boombox over his head,” he scoffed.

I rolled my eyes. “You’d have to watch from the beginning to understand.”

When the credits started rolling, August snatched the remote off the coffee table, re-started the movie, and hit play.

“Do you really want to watch this?” I gave him a skeptical look.

“Sure.” He leaned back and propped his feet on the coffee table. As if he had all the time in the world and was planning to stay for a while. “I want to see how far he gets with a boombox.”

I snorted. “I don’t think this movie is your style.” He seemed more like a Tarantino kind of guy.

“So quick to judge. For all you know, I stood outside a girl’s window holding a boombox over my head for hours when I was a teenager.”

I laughed, and the sound almost startled me. But now I felt bad for dragging him out of bed to deal with my drama. “I’m sorry I called.”

“Don’t be.” He blew out a breath. “You rescued me.”

Curiosity got the best of me. “Oh? From what?”

He shook his head and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Doesn’t matter. It’s been a strange night.” He laughed under his breath. “Blame it on the full moon.”

Now Ireallywanted to know what had made his night so strange. Other than me drunk dialing him, of course. “What hap—”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” I was playing dumb, but not really. I didn’t remember what I’d said on the phone, so I had no idea what would have prompted him to come over and check on me.

He lifted one brow. “About whatever made you so upset that you got drunk and called me.”

I worried my lip between my teeth. What did I say? I tried to jog my memory, but my brain was fuzzy, and I came up empty. “Are we at that level of our friendship?”

“I don’t know, Nic. You tell me. You drunk-dialed me. Said some crazy shit. So I jumped in my truck and came right over.” He sounded frustrated, but his voice was tinged with concern. “Then I spent fifteen minutes ringing your damn doorbell before you answered. I was two seconds from picking the locks or breaking your fucking door down.”

He seemed fully capable of doing either of those things. My gaze dipped to his scarred knuckles. How many faces had he punched? How many doors had he broken down?

“Nicola,” he prompted.

“What exactly did I tell you on the phone?” I hedged. I was half-afraid to hear what kind of ‘crazy shit’ I might have said. Knowing me, it could have been anything.

Whenever our arms brush, I feel a jolt of electricity.

Last night I had a dream about you. It was so vivid that I was surprised to find myself alone when I woke up.

And by the way, do you have a big dick?

He hesitated. “You said your husband is gone and never coming back.”

Oh shit. I said that? “Did I… um, say anything else?” It was starting to come back to me in fragments, but it was still hazy.

He let out a sigh like he didn’t want to tell me. I gave him a little nudge, prompting him even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. “You said that you think you deserve to be stuck in this place. You don’t feel like you deserve to move on. But you don’t know how to live like this anymore.”

I couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than sharing my sexual fantasies. Further proof that drunk dialing was always a bad idea.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked again, his voice soft like he genuinely cared.