Page 55 of Until August

Maybe now I was ready to take some baby steps in the right direction.

Maybe it was okay to pursue my dreams and to start living again.

Maybe it was okay to want more.

“And how about moving on?” I asked. My hand curled around the nape of his neck, my intentions clear.What if we can find a way to move on… together? “Have you found a way to do that?”

Our gazes met, and his green eyes held me captive. The seconds dragged on as he stared at me in silent contemplation.

“Working on that too,” he said a few seconds later, his voice strained as my fingers boldly delved into his hair. It was thick and softer than I’d imagined.

I shifted position, trying to get closer, and… I’m not sure what I intended to do because I was suddenly hyper-aware that I was still in his lap and that he was…hard?

My eyes widened, and I sucked in a breath at the same time he did. As if we’d both just come to the same realization.

Gray sweatpants didn’t provide much of a barrier. I could feel his erection pressing against my thigh. His entire body tensed and went rigid when I clutched his t-shirt in my fist, silently begging for more, trying to let him know it was okay.

His eyes closed, and he shook his head. “I need to go before I end up fucking you on this sofa.”

“What would be so bad about that?”

He sighed as he lifted me out of his lap, deposited me on the sofa, then stood and looked down at me. “Trust me. There’s nothing I want more. But you’re drunk, and I don’t want to be the guy you regret tomorrow morning.”

I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t form the words.

“Drink plenty of water, take two aspirin, and get some sleep,” he said, sounding like a doctor. “See you tomorrow.”

With those words, he strode away briskly, and before I even had a chance to say thank you or good night, I heard the front door slamming shut behind him. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

It was the second time he’d rejected me. It should have made me feel worse than it did. But instead of feeling the sting of rejection, I felt something altogether different.

I flopped back against the sofa, boneless. I was drained. Hollowed out from my confession and tears. But those stupid butterflies had invaded my stomach again.

What had just happened?

Oh my God.

I started laughing. And then I laughed harder.

It was cleansing—the tears and the laughter, almost like a baptism.

For the first time in two years, I felt something almost foreign to me—hope. It was a powerful drug, and I knew that hope, however fleeting, was the antidote.

I also knew that August was the key to helping me move on.

CHAPTERTWENTY

August

Pretty sure thiswas an all-time low. What kind of asshole gets an erection while listening to someone sharing their tragedy?

Me.

I was that asshole.

After I’d charged out of her house last night, I drove around aimlessly because I had zero privacy at the fucking hostel. It was starting to feel like I was doing another stint in the county jail. If the county jail had teenage girls offering threesomes.

Before Nicola called, two girls staying at the hostel followed me down to the surfer beach. I went down there every night to decompress and to put off returning to my shared bunk room until the last possible moment.