Caleb

BEING FRIENDS SUCKS.

Especially when your friend can’t stand being around you. The way Zadie ran off the other day, just at the suggestion of being alone with me? It was a huge kick to my already fragile ego.

Yes, fragile. I can admit it.

I’m not one of those tough, pretend I don’t care kind of guys. I have feelings. Probably too damn many, truthfully. And I’m afraid I don’t know how to hide them, how to protect myself. Putting myself out there, just to be turned down by her again? Even if it’s for something as simple as a friend date, it proves I’m not capable of making rational decisions. Not with this girl.

So, I’m back to avoidance.

The smell of popcorn wafts through my open bedroom door. Chante’s declared it movie night. Zadie showed up a while ago, and I’ve been pretending to be busy in my room ever since.

The sound of their voices carries with the smell of the butter. They’re loud. At times, it’s hard to tell if they’re having fun, or if they’re killing each other.

There’s obviously something going on between them. I couldn’t hear the argument they had at the park, but the way Chante’s hands were flying, I’d say it was a big one.

“Caleb!” Chante calls urgently.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, running from my room, only to find the two of them throwing popcorn at each other in the kitchen.

“Zadie’s trying to make me watch Sinister. She says it’s a must-watch movie. I don’t believe her.”

My racing heart calms—there’s no real panic, it’s just Chante being overly-dramatic. I’m coming to realize my cousin has a bit of a split personality. Crazy, over-the-top one minute, and eerily serious the next.

“I’ve never seen it either,” I tell her.

“What?” Zadie exclaims. Gone are the dark circles from under her eyes, the troubled pinch from her mouth, and the tension from her spine. With her hair piled on top of her head, messy strands hanging around her face, she looks fresh and innocent. Her shocked, wide eyes lend to the effect. “Neither of you know what you’re missing. It’s one of the scariest movies ever made—it’s completely awesome!”

“Then what are we waiting for?” I ask, humored. “If it’s one of the scariest movies ever, I need to see it.”

Chante throws her hands in the air, whirling around, looking between me and Zadie. “Fuck d'ostie! I don’t like horror movies! I don’t know why you always try to make me watch them,” she says, pointing at Zadie. “You know I’m just going to make you turn it off halfway through and watch something else.”

“You’re such a wimp,” Zadie accuses, playfully. “Your cousin agrees with me—don’t you Caleb?” Her playful tone and natural, unworried smile, help me relax back into the idea of being friends. At least she’s not ignoring me, or running away.

“Come on, Chante,” I goad. “You work in an ER, how can you be afraid of a movie?”

“Fine,” she gives in. “Just don’t complain if I make you both sleep in my room with me tonight. With the lights on.”

I follow them to the living room. Chantal plops into her favorite over-sized armchair, forcing Zadie to share the couch with me. We’re at opposite ends, with an entire cushion of space between us. But something about the way she casually curls her feet up and points her toes toward me, makes it feel intimate.

“We should have made more popcorn,” Chante complains, hugging the huge bowl that’s practically overflowing.

“It’s alright,” Zadie says, grabbing the remote. “I don’t think I want any right now, anyway.”

A look passes between them, strengthening my suspicions about something going on. My concerns are quickly forgotten when the opening credits start to roll. Chante squeals, “Ethan Hawke is in this movie? Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have put up such a fight.”

Zadie’s sweet laugh is free and unbothered—I love the sound of that laugh. “You’re not going to like him for much longer!” she declares, her giggles quickly dying as the movie starts.

Chante doesn’t make it very far—only twenty minutes in and she’s proclaiming Sinister ‘too scary for life’. She doesn’t demand we turn it off the way she warned. Instead, she makes an excuse about going to the washroom, and doesn’t come back.

“Do you think she’s alright?” I ask Zadie, stretching my arm along the back of the couch. If I leaned in, just a bit, my fingertips could graze the back of her neck. But I don’t give into that urge—it’s probably not considered an acceptable thing for a friend to do.

“Oh yeah, she does this every time. She’s never made it through an entire horror movie with me.”

“I guess Ethan Hawke wasn’t enough to convince her.”

“No, I guess not. He’s a great actor, isn’t he? I love him in this movie and Boyhood. Have you seen that one? It’s phenomenal,” she rambles, without waiting for my response. “He’s one of my favorites. But he’s not a Chris. Chante would stay for a Chris.”

“A Chris?”

“Yeah, you know—Evans, Pine, Pratt, or Hemsworth. Especially Hemsworth, he’s her favorite.”

“Oh, of course,” I tease. “Who’s not in love with that guy?”

“I’m not. He’s not my type.” Her eyes shift from the movie, shyly finding mine. “He’s just too... much.” Looking back to the television, she adds, “I do like his hair, though. Long hair on a man is super sexy.”

Damn.

The easy banter, the laughter, the comfort of hanging out. It all had me feeling like this friend thing wasn’t going to be so bad after all. We’ve been relaxed and easy. I was just starting to accept things as platonic. Then, one innocent slip of a comment, and I’m turned inside out. Her words are so provocative, it makes me wonder if they’re really innocent at all.

Is it a tiny hint she might be interested? A little tease that we could be more than friends?

One thing’s for sure, it’s an enormous enticement. It makes me think about sliding across this couch and putting my mouth on hers.

“I pictured you as more of a comedy fan.” I unsuccessfully attempt to drag my thoughts away from her words, her lips, and the way her legs have stretched closer to me.

“Sure, when I’m in the mood for one. But I like any kind of movie, as long as it’s good.” She trails off, her attention caught by the action on the screen.

My attention is focused on watching her. The glow of the television highlights her features. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but she looks flushed. Her cheeks are a light crimson, and there’s a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. The exaggerated play of shadow can’t be blamed for the rapid rise and fall of her ample chest. Or for the white knuckled clutch of her hands in her lap.

“You’re missing the good part,” she murmurs, her eyes never leaving the screen.

“I’m not missing a thing.” Intent on studying her profile, I torture myself with thoughts of running my hand up her legs.

When she jumps in her seat, I’m jolted into paying attention to the movie again. She was right, it’s scary as hell—for a movie. Creepy children and the idea of everything being captured on a reel of film is kind of freaky. The ending is gruesome. When I turn to see Zadie’s reaction to it, I realize she’s not watching the movie. She’s watching me. Even when my eyes land on hers, she doesn’t look away.

“Well?” She turns to face me and her legs stretch out in front of her—her toes almost brushing my thigh. “What’d you think?”

“It was good.”

“Good? Just good?” She frowns. “You didn’t think it was scary?”

“Sure, but it’s just a movie. Artificial blood, visual effects, and a made-up story—none of it’s real. It’s hard to be afraid of something that’s so fake.”

“Some of it’s real!” she argues. “Death is real. You have to admit, that shit’s scary.”

“I’m not afraid to die.”

“What? Come on Caleb, everyone’s afraid of death, at least a little.”

“Nope, not even a little. Death is inevitable. I’m more afraid of life.” She looks doubtful, or maybe a little surprised. “Well, I’m not afraid of life itself—more like, missing out on it. I think it’s easy to forget what a gift it is, and all it takes is one wrong choice, one missed opportunity to mess it all up.”

“Trust me, I know,” she whispers.

“Besides,” I tell her, hoping to turn her thoughts away from her past and the bad choices she claims to have made. “I’ve already died once. It wasn’t that bad.”

Her mouth drops open, her eyes growing round. “Seriously? I knew you had an interesting story to tell.”  

“Maybe another time. One scary story per night is my limit,” I joke. “The movie was good enough.”

“I’ve seen it three times and it still makes me want to turn all the lights on,” she admits. “Although, I doubt it’s going to be what keeps me awake tonight.” The large breath she drags in is ragged, and her hand seems to tremble as she reaches up to smooth her hair.

I can’t help myself, everything about her is enticing. The way she squirms in her seat. The way her chest pushes out with her exaggerated breath. The way her eyes seem to fill with heat. I reach down and take her small feet in my hands, grazing circles over her soles.

I’m not sure what kind of reaction I’m expecting, but when she closes her eyes on a satisfied sigh, I feel rewarded. So, I rub them a little harder. My hands travel a little farther too. Massaging from her toes to her ankles, my fingers brush over the smooth skin of her leg.

Stroking. Soothing. Indulging.

She sighs again, only this time, it’s something deeper than a sigh. This time, it sounds like a small but pleasured moan.

And fuck me, that sound skips my ears and travels straight to my cock.

Her eyes fly open, her breath catches in her lungs, and instantly she’s pulling away from me. Her adorable, tiny toes retract to her side of the couch.

“I should get home, I’ve got class in the morning and work tomorrow night,” she explains.

“Yeah, of course, you’re right,” I concede. “Let me walk you up to your apartment, it’s late.”

“That would be nice.”

Surprised by how readily she agrees, I don’t give her time to second-guess it.  Quickly I’m up, slipping on my shoes, and heading out the door. Zadie follows, not far behind.

It’s only one flight of stairs, but we take the elevator, waiting for the ancient contraption to make its way from one floor to the next. For once, I’m thankful for its slow crawl—it gives us more time together.

When the doors finally open, I guide Zadie out with my hand on her back. She doesn’t protest my touch, but she doesn’t lean into it the way I’d hoped she might.

Stopping at her apartment, I expect to wait for her to unlock it, but instead she walks right in. I really need to say something to her and Chante about personal safety, but right now I can’t find it in me. I don’t want to ruin what could be an important moment.

Stepping over the open threshold, she turns to face me. “Thanks for the fun night, and for walking me up here.”

“Listen, Zadie, I know this wasn’t a date, but don’t you think it kind of felt...”

“No, Caleb.” She puts her hand on my chest, looking up at me with her big doe eyes pleading. “Just friends, remember?”

I’d believe her if it weren’t for the lingering of her hand over my heart and the rapidly ticking pulse in her neck. If she stepped away, if her body wasn’t contradicting her words, I might consider her serious.

She’d only need to look down to see how I’m feeling. Having her so close, touching me in a way that should be chaste, but isn’t... my body has decided if this is friendship, it doesn’t mind in the least—in fact, it likes it a lot.

Unfortunately, at this moment, I can feel a second set of eyes on me. Glancing to my right, I’m shocked by the sight of an older lady, staring me down. Quickly, I look back to Zadie, my body cooling from the vision of our unwanted audience.

“Well, friend,” I murmur. “Maybe now’s not the best time to mention it, but your neighbor two doors down is staring at us. And she’s wearing a bathrobe. Just a bathrobe.”

Zadie steps into me, poking her head out the doorway. I catch the vanilla scent of her shampoo, as she spots her not-so-subtle neighbor. The lady’s standing proudly with her fluffy green and purple zebra striped robe open wide. Her sagging assets are bared for all to see.

“Madame Gagne!” Zadie yells. “It seems you forgot your clothing again. Did you also forget which apartment is yours?”

With a humph of annoyance, the old woman narrows her gaze at Zadie before slowly sauntering back to her unit. But not before throwing a sly wink my way.

“Good Lord,” Zadie exclaims, turning back to me. “I’d worry about her, but I’m convinced she does it intentionally.”

I can’t help but laugh loudly. “Now, I really might have nightmares.”

Zadie’s smile seems forced. When she realizes how close we’re standing she takes a huge, unsteady step backward. “You should go, before another of my neighbors decides to visually molest you. Mr. Parker has a thing for young men, so you just never know.”

“Goodnight, Zadie,” I murmur. My smile’s incurable, despite her rejection.

“Goodnight, Cal,” she whispers.

Slowly, she closes the door. I’m left with the picture of her uncertain, disappointed gaze, and the sound of my name on her lips. A name no one else calls me. But from her, it sounds right.

***

Zadie

“IT’S BAD ENOUGH, YOU refusen’ to come back home where you belong, Zadiebug. I don’t understand why you can’t at least come for a visit. It’s Thanksgiving for goodness-sake.”

My hair is damp and hanging in a giant tangle. I have no energy to fix it, which is the worst because my hair needs tons of attention when it’s like this. Even just a spray of leave-in conditioner would help. Do you think I can find the bottle? Of course not. But instead of searching for it, I’m stuck in a one-way conversation with the woman who gave me life and an ever-growing migraine.

My mother, Jenni Tillman-Overly, is a whiner. It annoys the shit out of me, almost more than her stupid hyphenated name. Tillman I get, it’s her maiden name, but Overly? Overly is the name of a man she never married. She claims he was the love of her life—she cheated on my father with him, after all—but she also left him over a decade ago.

“You stayin’ away so long makes me think I did somethin’ wrong. Like you don’t wanna see me,” she continues. Her sickeningly sweet, over-the-top, fake country drawl pushes the limits of my patience.

Both her voice and her complaining anger me.

At least, that’s what I’m blaming my bad mood on. Subconsciously, I know the reason I’m so grumpy is because I barely slept. I tossed and turned, unable to keep my thoughts away from my disastrous evening with Caleb.

I can’t believe the shit that came out of my mouth. Long hair on a man is super sexy. What the hell was I thinking?

I’m starting to worry the pregnancy hormones are killing off my brain cells. Especially since I’m still thinking about him—even while my mother rambles in my ear.

Is it normal to fixate on a foot rub?

Of course, I’m obsessing over a lot more than just the perfect pressure of his hands on my feet. I keep replaying the way we said goodbye. The way I touched him. The feel of his chest. His heart beating strong and steady under my palm. God, he felt good. I can’t stop thinking of the way his muscles tensed at my touch. Or how much I wanted to let my fingers roam all over him, instead of pushing him away.

And the way he looked at me...

Even my elderly neighbor’s badly timed peep show couldn’t ruin that memory. He looked at me like I was important, like I was something to be cherished.

The memory’s implausible, I know. But, improbable or not, it’s a fantasy that has me impossibly aroused. I keep daydreaming about running my fingers through his silky looking hair as he kisses me. Everywhere.

“Are you even listening to me, Zadiebug?” Jenni’s shrill question interrupts my thoughts. “I swear, you’d think I was the wicked witch the way you avoid me.”

“I’m not avoiding you, Mom, don’t be silly. I’d love to see you but the drive is too long, and you know I can’t afford the flight,” I remind her. “Besides, I’d be lousy company, I’d probably spend the whole time in your bathroom, barfing.”

Not to mention, I don’t want to buy the groceries, cook the meal, or clean the dishes afterward. I know it would all be left up to me, since my mother’s version of cooking involves a drive-thru window.

Jenni’s not very motherly. She’s better with me now that I’m an adult and can fend for myself. But as a child, she never missed an opportunity to make me feel like a burden. I was her crux to bear for falling in love with a no-good loser like my father—who she also never bothered to marry.

“But Andy’s been looking forward to meeting you. We were hoping to finally meet your boyfriend, too.”

Pain courses bright and colorful through my head, heightening my wicked headache.

“Mom, I told you, Sean isn’t my boyfriend anymore.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure if you give him a chance he’d be more than happy to make it up to you.” Like that’s an option, and if it was, like I’d ever be interested in taking it. “I bet he feels bad for running off. You can’t fault a man like that. He’s got all that talent, all that fame. His life is so much bigger than yours.”

Say fucking what?

“And yet, he’s still so small in so many ways.” A knock on my door saves me from getting into a verbal wrestling match with Jenni. “Listen, Mom, someone’s at the door, I’ve got to go.”

“Don’t be mad, Bug. You know I love you.”

“I love you too. Maybe I’ll be able to come home at Christmas, but I’ve really got to go now.”

“Okay, Bug, just remember what I said, take care of yourself. And don’t let your fancy French friend keep you away from me for too long.”

These are the moments I feel guilty for leaving her, for choosing to stay here. Despite our differences and my lingering bitterness, I know deep down she loves me. But I also know, if I were to go back home, I’d be stuck supporting her—both emotionally and financially. Not to mention, forced to give up everything I’ve started here, and made to face all the other mistakes I left behind.

Another knock rings out just as I manage to drag my sorry ass to the door. I don’t know if it’s dealing with my mother, the lack of sleep, or my crazy Caleb reveries—I feel robbed of all my energy. My skull feels pressurized.

With a loud huff, I open the door.

Standing on the other side is the man I’ve been obsessing over—the one I was recently imagining with his lips on me.

I’m suddenly, regrettably, aware of how I must look. My hair’s a wet pile of knots, my yoga pants area size too small, and my t-shirt does nothing to hide my bra-less nipples that tighten at the sight of him.

“Hi,” Caleb says, overly casual.

“Hi!” I squeak. Quickly, I cover my tender breasts with my hands. Which does nothing but make it look like I’m fondling myself.

He doesn’t laugh at me though. Sure, his eyes sparkle and his mouth quirks, but he does not laugh.

Embarrassment brings tears to my eyes—or maybe that’s the burning of the vomit crawling up my throat.

Shit. Why now?

Plastering a hand over my mouth, I race to the bathroom where I noisily lose the contents of my stomach. I retch, and I retch some more. Falling to my knees, vomit splashes the sides of the toilet as I try in vain to keep it in the bowl.

What a fucking disaster.

“Here,” his calm, concerned voice soothes as the toilet flushes and a cool cloth is pressed to my face. “Can you lean over this way?”

Feeling like a rag doll, Caleb helps prop me against the tub, where he’s placed a towel for me to lean on. With zero complaint and absolute proficiency, he manages to clean up my mess.

“Be right back, don’t move,” he instructs after washing his hands.

I don’t know where the hell I’d go, but I really wish it could be into a giant hole that magically opens in the floor.

My wish goes unfulfilled and he quickly returns with a glass of water.

“Thank you,” I manage, after regaining my composure. “I need to brush my teeth. Do you mind?” I point to my toothbrush.

Once again, he acts without hesitation. Loading my toothbrush with paste, he hands it to me. His smile, filled with compassionate concern. “Would you like to pull your hair up? Is there something I can get you for it?”

Ugh, my hair. It’s going to all fall out if I try anything with it. “No, it needs conditioner and a comb,” I tell him from around the toothbrush as I scrub the bile from my mouth.

“Okay.”

He digs through my bathroom cabinet. I don’t question what he’s doing. Instead, I take the opportunity to spit my mouthful of foam into the toilet while his back is to me.

“How’s this?” He turns, holding the very thing I’d been too lazy to get for myself.

“Perfect.” I admire his casual ease and the way his glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, highlighting the gorgeous angles of his face.

Ignoring my outstretched hand, Caleb straddles the tub and goes to work on my tangles himself. He doesn’t bother with the comb, working the conditioner in with his hands. His fingers are magic. Soon, the soothing sweep of his hands through my hair turns to an erotic massage of my scalp.

At least, it feels erotic.

Even better than the foot massage.

I’m not sure how it’s possible, but the ache between my thighs has returned. The little toilet bowl incident—forgotten. It takes conscious effort to hold in any more embarrassing noises of appreciation.

“Feeling better?” he asks, his warm breath tickling my shoulder.

If I lie and tell him no, will he stay this close to me, forever?

“Yes. Much better, thank you.”

“Good. If you’re up for it, we should move you somewhere more comfortable than the bathroom floor.” He combs through my hair one last time.

“Thanks.” I accept his hand to help me off the floor and lean into him as he walks me to my living room. “I didn’t even ask why you’re here.”

“You left your backpack at our place.” He guides me to my couch, and I sink into it in embarrassment, trying not to show how much his touch affected me. “Chante asked me to bring it up to you. She thought you’d need it for school tomorrow.”

“I don’t have school tomorrow.”

“Huh. Maybe she thought you’d be studying.” He rakes a hand through his own hair, emphasizing its lusciousness, and the hard bulge of his biceps.

No, I decide, Chante isn’t concerned about my education—her only dedication is pushing Caleb in my face. Why is she trying so hard to tempt me?

Why is it working?

“Want to stay and watch another movie?” I ask.

“Are you feeling up for more horror flicks? After all that?” He points toward the bathroom, where the most recent massacre took place.

“I feel fine, but maybe we could watch a rom-com, instead?”

“Seems like a strange choice for a woman who doesn’t believe in love.” He smiles. It’s a sexy little smirk that does nothing to relieve the tension in my thighs. But it does remind me of the tightrope I’m walking. Another mistake trying to pull me down, instead of gravity.

“Just because I don’t believe in love doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good love story. They still make good movies,” I explain.

“You can pick whatever you like, but if I stay, I doubt I’ll pay attention to it.”

“What will you be paying attention to?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.” He takes a step toward me, his expression intent, his presence intense.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. My shirt brushes over my breasts, reminding me I’m still not wearing a bra—and I’m still really fucking turned on.

“Zadie, if I stay, I’m just going to be fantasizing about your mouth—about kissing you. And wondering if you’re thinking about it too.”

Bending down, he braces an arm on either side of me, one on the armrest and one on the back of the couch. He’s hovering over me, slowly gaining proximity as he searches my eyes.

“If I stay, we’re calling it a date,” he murmurs.

“Caleb...”

“I like it when you call me Cal.”

“Cal...”

The words on my tongue get lost as his lips meet mine. His mouth is gentle, just a brush against my own—so whisper soft, I wonder if I’m imagining it. I want to reach up and grab him, pull him into me. I want to touch his face and his hair. I want to find out if the rest of him feels as heavenly as his chest did last night.

But I hold back, riveted, as his lips linger, skating delicately over my own. My senses overload. His woodsy scent fills my nostrils. His lean body encompasses mine. And his mouth—his tantalizing fucking mouth—captures me in a caress so sweet, I’m swooning.

Can a touch this innocent even be called a kiss?

When he pulls his mouth away I want to protest. I want to demand that he get back here and give me more. But he’s still braced above me, looking at me like I’m a treasure he just found. I can’t bring myself to demand a thing.

“So, what’s it going to be?” he asks.

My stomach tosses again, but this time it’s not the morning sickness making me want to vomit—it’s guilt.

Shaking my head at him, I let my regret take over. I need to find my footing. I need to stop walking this fine line toward self-destruction. More importantly, I need to stop leading Caleb into my fray of devastation.

“Friends don’t date. They don’t kiss.” My mouth twists from the sour taste of my words. “And if they’re really good friends, they can pretend they don’t want those things—even when they do.”

“Okay,” he sighs, kissing the top of my head. “I think I’ll pass on the movie this time, friend.” He straightens, removing himself as my cocoon. “But call me if you’re ever in the mood for a superhero flick—they’re my favorite.”

 “Of course they are. All that action, the fighting, stuff blowing up—aren’t they every guy’s favorite?” My words are light and teasing but my mood is bleak and bitter. The acid turning in my stomach threatens to make an appearance.

“What are you talking about?” He smiles playfully, seemingly unaffected by my rejection. “It’s not all conflict and warfare. There’s intricate storytelling involved. Superheroes have tragic backstories, identities that can never be revealed, and love interests they deny themselves. All for the sake of the greater good. They do it to save those who can’t save themselves. And they do it with flair.”

“It sounds heartbreaking when you put it that way.”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s beautiful. Romantic, even—it’s the ultimate sacrifice for love. That’s why they’re my favorite.”

But when does the sacrifice end? And how do you know when it’s worth it?

“Well, if I ever need a good recommendation, I’ll keep you in mind.”

With a sly smile, he walks toward the door. “I’ll keep you in mind too, Zadie.”

***

Caleb

Kick. Push. Glide.

With my board under my feet and an empty road ahead of me, I focus on the momentary freedom I’ve found. Autumn wind rushes my ears, catches my hair, and cools my skin. Trees of brilliant orange, red, and yellow line the street. Dried, dead leaves are casualties to the slow approach of winter. They fall to the ground, snagged by the wind, swirling along the gutters as I pass. The sound of traffic is a distant hum, the rumble of my wheels over the uneven asphalt the only sound that matters.

I love this feeling.

I need this feeling.

It reminds me who I am and keeps me from falling apart into a crazed emotional mess. I thought I could handle it—volunteering to help kids with cancer. I thought it was a way to deal with the torment of my past and to view myself as the strong survivor everyone else sees.

I was wrong.

When I visited those kids today, for a moment all I saw was pain and suffering. The unfairness of it all. An incredibly un-fucking-fair shit storm of illness and despair.

I felt helpless—weak and afraid.

“Don’t rush it,” the volunteer coordinator, Renee advised me. “It takes everyone time to find their footing. Even me.”

She was right. By the end of my orientation I knew I’d made the right choice. It’s the right place, the right people. Even if it was initially for the wrong reasons. Volunteering isn’t about me. I don’t need to revisit my past, my struggles, my pains. I already know I’m not defined solely by the things I’ve overcome. I’m not a victim. I’m more than the conqueror of a disease.

Cancer doesn’t own me.

I need to show these kids they can be more too. Volunteering is for them.

Live despite the fear.

“How’d it go?” Chante asks when I walk through our unlocked door. She looks cozy, curled up in her armchair—blanket in lap, book in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other.

“Good,” I tell her, shrugging out of my jacket. “There wasn’t much to it—just paperwork, and a basic tour, but I think it’s going to be perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, opening her book, before quickly slamming it shut again. “I have to say this—and don’t fucking laugh at me—I’m just so proud of you.”

“It’s volunteer work, Chante. I’m not nearly as important as the staff. People like you, you literally save lives—”

“That’s not what I meant,” she interrupts. “You’re not just volunteering; it’s children’s oncology, Caleb. I’d say that’s a pretty dark rabbit hole for you, but you’re doing it anyway. You’re here, despite your parent’s objections. You quit school when it wasn’t working for you. You’re taking control of your life, living the way you want, and I think that’s goddamn admirable. So, shut up and take the compliment.”

I laugh, despite her warning. “You might not find me so admirable if I don’t find a paying job and my own place to live soon,” I say, lightening the mood.

“Whatever. I want you to stay—you keep replacing my empty wine bottles with full ones, it makes me happy.”

“That’s all it takes to make you happy?” I tease.

“No. What I really need is for you to somehow convince Zadie... actually, never mind. The wine is great, let’s leave it at that.”

Chante goes back to her book, intentionally ignoring my reaction to hearing Zadie’s name. My curiosity is peaked. I know the two of them are going through a bumpy patch, but neither seem willing to acknowledge it. I don’t want to be nosy or get in the middle, but I can’t help feeling like I somehow already am.

Over the past two weeks, Chante’s repeatedly done this not-so-subtle hint dropping. She does it when we’re alone and when Zadie’s around, she doesn’t discriminate. I’m not sure what she thinks she’ll accomplish, nothing’s changed so far.

Zadie and I are still playing friends.

I say playing because it feels like an act. She keeps pretending she’s not interested, and I keep pretending that’s okay.

“We should go out tonight,” I suggest, a small surge of adrenaline pumping through my system. “I feel like celebrating.”

Casting a glance over her novel she raises an eyebrow. It’s odd to see some dude’s bare, bulking abs, with Chante’s eyes hovering right above. “I just got off a twelve-hour rotation. If you think I’m going to spend this night doing anything, other than nothing, you’re crazy.”

“But —”

“No!” She shakes her head. “Not going to happen. Call Zadie. Make her go out with you.”

Can I do that? Just call her up and ask her to go out? “Do you think she will?”

“Merde, Caleb! What do I look like—your pimp? Please, just call the girl and ask her out, the worst she’ll say is no.”

Maybe Chante’s onto something. Or maybe I’m just high off her ‘I’m proud of you’ pep talk. I feel empowered. I feel like taking chances. Besides, Zadie’s only turned me down twice—or maybe it’s been three times—isn’t three times the charm?

Me: Want to go out tonight?

I text her, because if she’s going to shoot me down again I’d rather not hear the lilt of her voice while she does it.

Zadie: I’m studying

Her reply zaps me of all my excited energy. Just as I’m resigning myself to an evening of romance reading on the couch with Chante, my phone vibrates.

Zadie: But I could use a break. I’m hungry.

Me: Food is always good. Let’s go out to eat.

Zadie: Is Chante coming?

I type out my response in a rush, hitting send before I can second-guess myself.

Me: Nope. You + me + dinner = Friend date :)

And then I wait, and wait some more, praying that her answer doesn’t crush me completely.

Zadie: You mean hangin’ out.

I sigh with relief, even as my body zings with anticipation.

Me: Call it what you want - I expect you to be on your best behavior & keep your hands to yourself

Zadie: Seriously?

Me: I know, it’s a lot to expect with all my long hair tempting you ;)

“What are you laughing at?” Chante asks, her eyes still glued to her novel.

Zadie: Ha Ha - just for that, I’m picking the restaurant and you’re buying dinner. Pick me up at sex.

“Nothing,” I tell Chante, my ridiculous happy grin spreading. “Just having fun with Zadie.”

Zadie: OMG! SIX. Pick me up at SIX. Stupid autocorrect!

“Good,” Chante mumbles as I continue laughing to myself. “Go have fun with her in person and don’t come back until tomorrow morning if you can help it.”

***

It’s not even ten to six—I’m twelve full minutes early—and I’m already outside Zadie’s apartment door.

I’m standing here like an overeager idiot, too hesitant to knock. I don’t want to rush things, but I’m anxious to see her. I’m anxious to be alone with her again.

Wavering between knocking or waiting longer I’m caught off guard when the door opens.

“How long are you going to stand out here?” A smile plays on her lips. Her hand, perched on her cocked hip, emphasizes her narrow waist and the flair of her curves.

“Honestly? I was probably going to wait another fifteen minutes. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, just let me grab my purse. Do you want to come in for a minute?”

Her question is innocent but my dirty mind is stuck on the sway of her bottom as she turns and walks away. The temptation to grab her by her hips, to pull her body next to mine, to feel her curves press into me—it’s overwhelming. I’ve never met a woman that I’ve so urgently wanted underneath me, the way I do Zadie Fisher.

“I’ll wait here,” I tell her retreating form.

Needing to keep my shit together, I find myself walking the length of the hallway. I practice my pain management breathing as I pace. The pain I’m feeling right now is all centered around controlling my erection. It won’t be much of a friend date if I’m walking around with a hard-on all night.

“Hey, there you are.” She startles me, coming up from behind me on my second lap of the hallway. “Were you leaving? Did you change your mind?”

“Nope, mind’s solid. I just need to stretch my legs. Can we walk to the restaurant?”

“Well, I haven’t really picked a place,” she shyly admits. “I didn’t know what you wanted, and I really don’t go out all that often. I was kind of hoping we could find a place together.”

“Sounds like an adventure!”

The evening twilight is a soft orange and purple glow, the day losing warmth as the cool of night takes over.

“Which way?” I ask.

“Let’s go right,” she answers. “I never go that way.”

Walking side-by-side, I shorten my stride so Zadie can keep up with me. I’m the shortest man in my family, but my five-eleven frame still towers over her. I like that she’s short. I like that, if I were to pull her close, I’d be able to rest my chin on her head. I like that I’d be able to completely envelope her in my arms.

I like a lot of things about her—maybe everything.

Silently we make our way down the street, with no particular destination in mind. The great thing about this neighborhood is how many cool things are nearby. Sure, it’s not quite as trendy as Mile End-Ex, or even Mile End, but it’s not far off. If we really wanted to experience those hipster neighborhoods we wouldn’t have far to go. The lack of trend-setter attention makes our current location even more appealing to me. I like that we might be the first to discover something new—we could be the trendsetters.

“I can keep up. You don’t have to slow your pace for me,” Zadie assures.

“It’s alright, I’m all about distance, not speed.”

“Really? I figured a guy who likes skateboarding would be a fan of speed. Isn’t that part of it? You don’t seem like the slow and steady kind.”

“I guess it depends what you’re talking about. I’m not much for sitting still—I don’t like wasting time and I don’t want to miss out on stuff, but certain things need time. Certain things I don’t mind taking slow.”

Is that a blush heating her cheeks? And did I just promise to take things extra slow with her, even though I’m dying to speed them up?

“Well, I’ve never been too good at slow and steady either. I’ve always been the type to dive in, head first. It’s never done me much good, though.” Her voice trails off, and we’re back to pensive silence.

“How about a light round of twenty questions?” I suggest. “We can get to know each other better, one innocuous fact at a time.”

“How about five questions? And, I get to go first.”

At least she’s willing to negotiate.

“Okay, ask your question.”

“Why did you decide to move here? I thought you were in school?”

“Whoa. Those aren’t exactly light questions. I was thinking more along the lines of what’s your favorite color.” I smile and tell her, “I’ll answer, but this counts as two of your questions.”

Laughing at herself she admits, “I was never good at this type of game. Probably one of the reasons I’ve never dated.”

l don’t tell her that I think her lack of dating life says more about the losers she’s been with than it does about her. And I definitely don’t reminder that, according to her, this is not a date.

“I dropped out of school. Decided I was on the wrong path, or maybe it was the right path, but for the wrong reasons, I don’t know. Anyway, doesn’t matter because I was failing, so there wasn’t much of a choice—it was more about saving face. Moving here?” I want to tell her I came here for her. But that’s not the whole truth, and it’s probably too much to admit to someone who want us to be just friends. “It was time to do something for myself. So, I figured, why not?”

“That’s brave of you,” she says.

“Brave? More like impulsive and irrational,” I laugh off the compliment. It reminds me too much of all the other times in life I’ve been called brave. “My turn.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

Laughing, she tells me that she’s obsessed with red. “It holds so much meaning. Passion, rage, ambition, suffering—all rolled into one color? I love it.”

Her answer, just like her, is stunning. I make a mental note to wear more red.

“Why do you think you’re so impulsive?” She asks, forgetting it was my turn to ask another question.

“Too easy,” I tell her. “Because you never know what will happen tomorrow. No sense in wasting opportunity today.” As if to prove my point, I jump straight into the deep end and ask, “Why don’t you believe in love?”

She looks a little shocked by the question and her step falters slightly. “Is that really first date material?” she asks.

“So, this is a date now?” I challenge.

“A friend date,” she corrects, but it’s too late—my imagination’s set on fire.

“Are you going to answer the question, Zadie?”

With her chin high, and her voice firm, she tells me, “Kindness, compassion, devotion—that’s love. I believe in that. Romantic love? The idea of soul mates? I think a lot of people believe in it, but they settle for what’s in front of them and call it love because it’s convenient. It’s not love just because it’s the closest thing you can find.”

“Skeptic much?”

“That’s what I’ve seen, it’s what I’ve experienced. People fall in and out of love so easily. If you can’t love and be loved equally, forever, then what’s the point?”

She doesn’t sound like a skeptic. She sounds like she’s scared. Maybe she’s afraid love will disappoint her. Afraid to find it and then lose it.

Our suddenly deep conversational game of questions gets halted as we decide to stop and eat. La Banquise is a laid back little eatery with fantastic poutine and micro-brew. I’ve eaten here once before; the food’s delicious and the atmosphere’s friendly. Perfect for a first date—even if it’s not a really a date.

We find a quiet table in the corner. Zadie orders a turkey sandwich and salad, while I go all out with a behemoth order of poutine and a burger. The micro-brew here is fabulous, so I make sure to order one of those as well. Zadie sticks to water, insisting she doesn’t need alcohol for at least another year.

When she digs into her food with lustful flair, I’m set at ease. She’s relaxing, dropping her shield. Even if she’s unwilling to acknowledge the attraction between us, at the very least, it feels like we’ve arrived at being good friends.

“So, what do you normally do for fun—other than traumatize Chante with horror flicks?” I ask.

She laughs, and it sounds so much better than the last time I heard it. A sweet-sounding symphony. “I work and go to school. That’s it. I’m not much fun.”

“Oh, I don’t know... we’re having fun now. Watching a movie with you was fun. You’re a really fun drunk.”

With a groan, she buries her face in her hands, her wild, untamed hair falling around her. “Can we please not talk about the most embarrassing night of my life?”

“Embarrassing? You’re a rock star, what’s there to be embarrassed about?”

“Cal...”

My heart leaps at the magical sound of that name. Cal. It’s like a secret identity. Or maybe it’s my true identity. It makes me feel like a new person. Still me, but with no illness or limitations. A new man, ready to live a new life. A real life.

“Can we talk about you instead,” she pleads.

“No. I think I need to hear what it is that’s got you turning pink and hiding behind your hair.”

Dropping her hands, she stares me down. Bold. Determined. “Most men aren’t like you, you know.”

“What does that mean?” And is it good or bad. “What am I like?”

“You’re a good guy. A nice guy.”

“Nice? Such a ringing endorsement,” I tease.

“Don’t mock me, Caleb.” With her big doe eyes pinned to mine she smiles softly and says, “I haven’t met many nice guys in my lifetime. At least, none who’ve kissed me the way you did.”

Her eyes drop to my mouth, her tongue sneaking out to wet her lips, and my heart skips another beat. My own mouth waters at the thought of tasting those lips.

Boldly, I lean forward, my arms propped on the table, only inches away from her. “Did you like the way I kissed you, Zadie?”

She sighs and her whole body seems to sway toward me. Suddenly, the idea of not touching her feels like the worst idea ever. My promise to keep things platonic feels impossible. I’m tempted to lean over the table, to grab her and kiss her, just to test my theory on how much she really does want it.

Instead, I reach across and take her slim hand in mine. Holding hands isn’t too bad. Friends can hold hands. It’s perfect for a first date.

“You asked way more than five questions,” she says through a heated smile. “It’s my turn.”

Yes. Perfect.

***

Zadie

THE CRESCENT MOON GRINS down at us like an invisible Cheshire Cat in the sky. We saunter through the park. Distant music, faint but uplifting, floats through the air. This whole night has been like a trip into Wonderland—very strange and peculiar, indeed.

We gorged ourselves on poutine—well, I did. After polishing off my own meal, I helped Caleb devour his. That stuff should come with a warning label. It’s disgustingly addictive, but oh-so-freaking-good.

So, after eating my bodyweight in fries, gravy, and cheese, I’m thankful for the walk. I know my middle is going to start expanding soon, but it doesn’t need me helping it along. Besides, the evening air feels cleansing and I’ve got someone fun to keep me company.

Someone wonderful. So fucking wonderful.

Walking side by side, my hand is still firmly attached to his.

We haven’t stopped talking. Even with food in our mouths. The question game, quickly forgotten, was replaced with natural, easy-flowing conversation. It’s a friendly banter, punctuated with even friendlier looks and tentative touches.

It’s not a date, but it’s still perfect.

Too perfect.

I’m struggling with the fact that our first date—that’s not actually a date—will also be our last. Once Caleb learns the truth I’ve been hiding, I doubt he’ll have much interest in dating, or anything else.

“Can I ask about Sean?” His hand’s still holding mine, and our arms still swing cheerfully. But there’s tension building. Is it his or mine? Maybe both.

“I wouldn’t know where to start, even if I wanted to.” I definitely don’t want to.

“I guess I’m just curious how you’ve never been on a date, even though you lived together.”

“Promise not to judge?”

“What kind of crappy friend would I be if I judged you?”

I hate this story, but maybe telling it is one step closer to telling the truth. Maybe if Caleb hears a bit of what I’m actually like he’ll decide friends is more than enough.

“We never dated. The first time I met him I was working in a club, back home.”

“Where’s home?” he interrupts. “You never told me where you’re from.”

“Calgary.”

“You came all the way from Alberta? And you called me brave?”

“There’s a difference between bravery and impetuousness.” He looks doubtful. “Anyway, I was working in an upscale place. It was constantly filled with rich assholes who thought if they paid enough they could have whatever they wanted. That’s where I met him. He was there practically every night, for months.”

Thinking about it now, I realize that should have been the first warning sign. What decent man spends months at a time, partying in a nightclub?

“Everyone already knew who he was, but he was kind of our urban legend too. There were so many rumors about him, all bullshit of course, but when you’re immersed in it, lines blur.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, our stride slowing, our hands no longer swinging.

“I was struggling. Money was being waved around like it was candy, and I was desperate. I wanted out.”

“Out?”

“Yes, out. I’d just ended another disastrous relationship. I’d moved back into a rented shack to support my cheating mother and deadbeat father. My dreams were on hold because my parents never grew up. I needed out of that. And you know... desperation breeds stupidity.”

Stupidity, or insanity? Hard to tell which it is, when the mistakes you’re making are obvious from the start, but you choose to make them anyway.

“One of the rumors floating around was that he was interested in me. So, I flirted with him. Talked to him every night. Wore shorter skirts, higher heels. I tried to hustle him, hoping for bigger tips.”

“Zadie —" Caleb tries to protest.

“Caleb, you wanted to know about this. I need you to just listen. Please.” My words are hard, but my voice is weak. “He noticed me, and I felt special. He flirted with me. Sweet-talked me. Tricked me. Or, maybe I tricked myself—into believing we had a connection. And then we had sex in the alley, behind the bar. We did it again the next night, in the bathroom. And then every night after that, wherever we could. That’s all we ever had. Sex.”

He stops walking, stopping me in the process, and turns to face me, our hands still intertwined. His throat bobs as he swallows, “But you told me he begged you to come here, that he was madly in love with you.”

“Yeah, he did. But I think he was fooling himself too. And, truthfully, he didn’t have to beg that hard.”

“Well, he sounds like an ass to me.”

“He kind of is. But this is how pathetic I was—you can tell that just from a story. I lived with the man for months and was clueless.”

“You’re not pathetic. Wanting to believe in something, in someone? That just makes you a romantic.”

“A romantic? No, Cal, I’m far from romantic. The polar opposite. Sometimes, other than Chante, I think I’m the only realist in the crowd.”

With a warm squeeze of my hand he says, “It’s your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“To ask me a question. Better make it a good one.”

“Cal,” I interrupt. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

“Can you tell me later? I already feel like I’ve ruined this date. And even though it’s just a friend date, it’s still your first one.”

“But, it’s important,” I tell him. “And it might change your mind about being out on this date with me at all.”

“Nothing could change my mind, Zadie. Especially since you’ve finally agreed that it is a date.”

“It’s not —” My protest is blocked by his finger across my lips.

His firm touch captures not only my attention but my breath as well.

“What do you say we just pretend like it is?” The tip of his finger drags over my lips. Down, down, down. Until it rests below my chin. Gently, ever so gently, he pushes up, tilting my face to meet his gaze. “No pressure. No expectations. Just you and me and no regrets for one night. Okay?”

I smile up at his handsome features, prominently shadowed by the dim walkway lighting. I’m transported. I’m taken to the make-believe place he’s so perfectly described. The place, where we’re just two normal people, having a respectable first date. No baggage or babies in our way.

“Okay,” I whisper. “One night.”

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? You get this tiny little crinkle in your forehead when you’re worried, and you do this thing with your mouth.”

“Cal.” I sigh.

That sigh turns to a rough gasp as he pulls me closer. His chest brushes mine. His free hand moves to the small of my back, and the hand still holding mine, squeezes gently.

“What are you doing?” I stammer.

“Kissing you.” With his face lowered to mine, his mouth barely out of reach, he whispers, “Tell me now if you want me to stop.”

A thrilling sort of panic runs through me. He’s given me an option, a way out, but I can’t make my way to the exit. My vocabulary’s lost, the only word I can utter, “Please.”

“Please, what? Please stop? Please kiss you? I need to know, Zadie.”

When his mouth hovers over mine I become very sure of one thing—I want him to kiss me. Badly. I silently wish for it.

Silently beg for it.

“Zadie?” he prompts, but I don’t know what the question was. If he needs permission, he fucking has it. For kissing and a million other things.

With all language dead to me, the only thing I can do is show him. I raise up on my toes, tilting my face to his, my free hand moving to the back of his neck, urging him closer. Closer. Until our lips meet, and I sigh in relief at the contact.

His mouth is soft, molding to mine in a kiss so simple, yet engulfing. We linger there for what feels like a sweet eternity.

But it still ends too soon.

He pulls away from me, like I’m quicksand he’s afraid of getting pulled into. His breathing, unlike mine, is slow and smooth, but his eyes stay glued to my lips.

My heart beats wild and frantic, in part from the kiss, in part from the dread crawling through me.

I want him.

Far too much.

My impossible to tame hormones aren’t helping. I’m starting to think my pregnancy grief has turned a corner—no more angry bitch. Now I’m a horny bitch, and having a hard time keeping it to myself.

“Why’d you stop?” I ask, afraid to know the answer.

Instead of replying with words, he tugs me back to him. He crushes me in an embrace so tight, so warm, I may never want to escape it.

With his mouth at the shell of my ear, his low voice rumbles through me when he says, “Trust me, I don’t want to. But I’m trying my best to be a gentleman.”

Pulling away again, he looks around the nearly empty park.

I watch as his calm confidence gives way. Nervously, he rakes a hand through his hair. His controlled breathing is obviously a struggle. And his poor bottom lip is getting mauled as his teeth chew at it from the inside.

Pretend or not, this date is suddenly too much.

Too much angst. Too much ache. Too much hope.

It’s all too fucking much.

Taking it upon myself to declare the night over, I release his hand and start walking toward home. He can follow if he likes, or not. At this point, I’m not sure which it is that I want from him. I want him to want me—that’s for sure—but I hate myself for feeling this way. I hate myself for going along with this farce to begin with. For not just telling him the fucking truth the moment he walked through my door.

“Zadie, wait,” he calls, catching up to me quickly. “I’m sorry,” he pleads.

It’s more than I can take. Tears—big fat ones—start rolling down my cheeks in waves. My stomach revolts as well, the feeling of sickness rising quickly.

Shit. Not now.

Ignoring my queasiness, I manage to hold back the urge to vomit as I break into a run. I just need to get away from him. Need to clear my head.

Thankfully, we’re not far from home. I’m only slightly winded by the time I reach the condo lobby. I don’t bother to look behind me, as I slip through the door. Punching the elevator button repeatedly, I pray it will make the car come faster.

No luck. He’s there, beside me, staring up at the elevator display in pensive silence. When the doors open he follows me inside, standing at the back, while I wait at the door, anxious to escape. I should have just taken the stairs.

He doesn’t touch the button for Chantal’s floor. I don’t want to ask him, I don’t want to acknowledge him. I’m so afraid right now, I can’t even bring myself to look in his direction.

But I feel him.

God, how I feel him. His eyes burn holes in the back of my head, his breath fans hot down my back. He’s standing at least a foot away, but it feels like there’s no space between us at all. No space, just a giant, unspoken secret.

When I wipe the tears from my face, he reaches from behind me and hits the emergency stop button on the elevator.

The elevator crawls to a halt, and immediately a very loud, very obnoxious alarm sounds. We both react, our hands flying to our ears. The panic on his face would make me laugh if I wasn’t already crying.

“What the hell!” I yell at him.

I can’t hear what he’s saying to me, but he’s definitely speaking—I can see his lips moving. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long to fix it. Slamming his hand down over the console he somehow releases the button and stops the alarm.

“Shit. That’s not what I was expecting.” His voice echoes with the ringing in my ears.

The elevator shudders once and then slowly starts moving again. When the doors swoosh open at my floor we both hesitate, looking at each other to see who’ll take the lead.

Tentatively, Caleb peeks his head out—stealth mode activated—and I giggle at the absurdity of it. His shoulders shake, adding his silent laughter to my own as he quickly looks up and down the hallway.

“Coast is clear. Come on.” He grabs my hand and together we break into a run, both of us now giggling like idiots.

A surge of adrenaline hits me, the fear of getting caught lighting an odd kind of thrill within me. With shaking hands, I open my door and we scramble inside, both of us falling back against it as it closes.

We stand there, panting, leftover laughter catching us in spurts.

“What the hell was that about?” I ask, once I’m able to breathe again.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” he explains. “I thought it might be my last chance—figured you’d lock me out of your apartment. The elevator trick always works on television.”

“Well, now we know it doesn’t work like that in real life.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” He laughs again, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Seems to have worked out a bit better than I expected, actually.”

Shit, he’s right. I’ve locked myself in with him—the door is closed at his back.  I’m trapped. I know he’ll leave if I ask.

But I know I’m not going to.

“Why’d you run away?” His voice is low and serious, his head bowed to the floor.

“Cal —”

A loud, tortured sounding groan tears through him, halting my words—stopping my heart.

Suddenly, his arm is wrapped around my back, pulling me close to his side. With his face buried in my hair and his lips at my ear, he sighs, “Please don’t call me that and then follow it with something bad.”

“Caleb,” I try again. “I can’t date you. I can’t even pretend. This was a mistake. My mistake, and I’m sorry.”

“Was it the kiss?”

I want to tell him yes, but it would be a lie. The problem isn’t the kiss, it’s that I want so much more.

When I don’t reply, he adds, “I didn’t mean to push you. I should have waited.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, Zadie, it’s not. I’m too damn eager when I’m around you. I wanted to kiss you again—honestly, I’ve spent most of the night thinking about it—but I wanted to do it right.”

His words—so pure, so wonderfully ideal—are everything I could ever hope to hear. More than I’ve ever dared to hope for.

Hope, so stupid and useless, never wants to rest.

“I wanted it too,” I admit, a new flood of adrenaline coursing through me.

Tugging me even closer, he wraps his other arm around my back, his hand sneaking up into my hair. Effortlessly, he curls around me until our chests press together. The only thing in our way is the tangle of our legs and my lies.

Breathing deeply, he runs his nose along mine, his lips lightly brushing my cheek. His hand clenches in my hair, not pulling, just feeling, exploring.

My heart skitters as he bends further over me, his hold tightening, locking me in place. With the same tender sweetness as before, his lips skim over mine—a gentle, teasing glide. He repeats the motion, brushing his full bottom lip over the bow of my upper. It’s slow and sensual. It’s lingering and light.

It’s fucking agony.

I pray one of us has the willpower to stop.

“Zadie,” he whispers in a pained sigh.

“Cal,” I groan back.

Suddenly, his soft lips are everywhere—my neck, my ear, my face—before his mouth smooths its way back to mine. His tentative tongue finds me, ready, waiting.

My heart explodes, racing so quickly the rest of my body trembles.

His gentle hold shifts—a tender embrace turning to an evocative possession. My skin tingles as he strokes his hand through my hair and down the back of my neck, before lightly curling around my throat and framing my jaw in his splayed fingers.

“I want you,” he murmurs against my mouth.

With our bodies pressed together, I can feel the truth of his words, but I know it’s more than simple lust. He wants all of me. Even the parts I’m afraid to let go of. Even the parts I don’t have left to give.

His mouth is back on mine, enticing me to move closer, to rub my hand over his stomach. Encouraging me to press into his hand as it makes its way from my jaw to my chest. Forcing me to moan loudly as the friction of his fingers brings my nipple to a tight peak.

I want to get closer, to feel him against me, skin on skin. I want to get totally carried away.

Instead of giving into the pleasure, I find myself pushing him away. His hand falls from my chest, grasping at my waist, attempting to keep me from moving away. Breaking the kiss, I look up at him, lust still hazing my vision. He returns my stare, need reflecting back at me.

Violently, I break the spell.

“Caleb, I’m pregnant.”

There’s a silent pause. It stretches long. Thick with tension and uncertainty. I wonder if time has stopped. Maybe this is my punishment for my lack of courage. Maybe I’ll be forced to spend the rest of eternity witnessing his shocked expression. I’ll be stuck here, in this moment—the repercussion of all my mistakes displayed in the ruined look of his face.

His eyes fall to my stomach, his hand sliding along my middle.

“Pregnant,” he whispers, as though in awe.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.”

His eyes snap back to mine, his hands both falling to his sides. “It’s alright, I understand why you didn’t. I can’t imagine...”

“Can we still be friends?”

“Friends?” he bites.

I don’t back down. I simply hold his stare, trying hard not to look too longingly at his mouth, or notice the ice seeping into his gaze.

“I can’t keep pretending, Zadie.” His expression is unreadable as he continues staring at me.

What does he see?

Do my broken pieces stick out in jagged edges—as unsightly as they feel? Can he tell how terrified I am? Am I a list of regrettable actions and mistakes that can never be corrected? And will this moment sit at the top of that list?

He grasps my arm lightly, backing me up a step, and bends down to place a light kiss on the corner of my mouth.

“I don’t want to be your friend.” His soft, warm breath hits my lips, instantly crystallizing from the ice of his words.

I don’t respond. I can’t.

All I can do is watch in regretful silence as he walks away, and doesn’t look back.