Caleb

ON UNSTEADY LEGS, I shoulder my way into the crowded underground nightclub. The atmosphere is exactly as I remember it. The music is the same rhythmic beat. The people all look the same; dancing, smiling, having fun. The lighting. The smell of sweat and alcohol. The strangely appealing sticky goddamn floor. It’s all the same.

Everything but me.

The excitement, the intensity, the buzz from the crowd—I don’t feel it. Instead, there’s a nervous tremor in my hands, and I’m filled with edgy anticipation. I’m not plugged into the people around me. There’s only one person I’m interested in connecting with now.

Zadie.

When we connected, the way we connected. That kiss felt like something I’d been waiting my whole life for. The way she held her breath as I got closer. The way she looked up at me with something resembling starvation. The want, the desire—none of that was faked, none of it out of pity or obligation. She wasn’t putting on an act because of what I’ve gone through—it wasn’t about making a sick boy feel happy. It was a pure, blinding chemistry. Magic that’s slowly, hotly melding us together.

Except, she’s pregnant. Pregnant.

And I’ve fucked everything up.

The thought of her having another man’s baby triggers something dark and scary in me. My mind’s been tumbling around it, tripping over the irony, again and again. The woman I’m hung up on. The one I basically moved here to be closer to. The woman I kissed like I’ve never kissed any other. She’s about to create something I’ve always wanted.

Something I still want. Desperately.

Something I’ve been told I can never have.

I’m torn between wanting to feel sorry for myself and wanting to go beg for her forgiveness. I feel like shit, leaving her the way I did—looking so lost and yet, somehow determined—but I had no choice. My white knight complex is out of control and I was too tempted to do something crazy.

Like get down on one knee and ask her to marry me.

I might be prone to fantasy, but I’m still able to admit proposing to her would have been a very bad idea. Besides, even if marriage could solve the problem, I know Zadie would never say yes. She’s not going to look for someone else to save her. Not now. Not after Sean. She’s going to fight tooth and nail to make it on her own.

Especially after I walked out on her.

Instead of trusting her and the connection I feel pulling us to together, I let her push me away again. I should have put my heart in her hands. But, I carefully pushed it to the side and then proceeded to stomp all over it myself. Instead of leaving with my tail between my legs, I should have held her tighter, kissed her longer, and showed her I’m not going anywhere.

Yep. I’ve fucked it up, for sure.

Yet, here I am.

It’s Halloween and the bar is packed. When Chante suggested the club as a good place to celebrate, I started feeling ill. It’s psychosomatic, I know, but that doesn’t stop my gut from clenching or my heart from racing. I’m not sure how she’s convinced me to come along, knowing Zadie’s working tonight. Chante has a knack for talking me into things.

Now I’m faced with an entire evening of what’s supposed to be fun. All while Zadie’s only feet away, dressed in her cute little black uniform that outlines her delicious body—those soft, exquisite curves that fit my hands just fucking right. It’s going to be impossible not to fixate on her all night.

“Will you grab us some drinks?” Chante yells over the music. In her heels, we’re practically the same height, but her bossy tone makes it feel like she’s towering over me.

“I’ll lose you in this crowd. Why don’t you just come with me?”

With a roll of her eyes she laughs me off, waving her hand at me in dismissal. “I want to dance!” She exclaims, wiggling her way between the bodies on the dance floor, arms in the air.

Watching her go, I notice how she takes over the entire space. Even strangers recognize her power and make way for her. Hats off to the daring man who immediately approaches her. He’s going to need a hell of a lot more than his bold attitude, ridiculous gladiator costume, and bleached smile to get her attention.

Silently wishing him luck, I head to the bar. The closer I get, the more nervous I become. If Chante was with me I could use her as my excuse—my shield. Without her, I’ll probably seem like a desperate stalker or a callous ass. Either way, I’m screwed.

Weaving my way through the costumed crowd, I finally make my way to the bar, relieved Zadie’s not there. The redhead, Larissa, is at the opposite end from where I stand and the infamous Jean-Paul works this side. My jangling nerves start to settle. The feeling of anxiousness is slowly replaced with my dislike of this guy.

“You’re a pretty little thing. Une jolie petite fleur,” Jean-Paul says to the girl beside me.

With an uncomfortable giggle she replies, “Umm, thanks. Can I get a screwdriver, please?” She’s barely legal—her slinky white dress and bunny ears making her appear even younger. Eighteen is the drinking age in Quebec. I wouldn’t be surprised if this girl was here celebrating her birthday. She looks too young for me. Which makes her obscenely young for Jean-Paul, who looks like he could be in his mid-thirties.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t order their own drinks,” he says, reaching for a glass. “Where’s your man?”

“Umm, I’m just out with some friends tonight,” she hesitates.

“Well, then. Let me buy this one for you.” He smiles salaciously. Reaching across the bar, he runs his hand up her arm, stopping at her elbow. He caresses her in a way I’m uncomfortable watching. “But you have to promise to come back and visit me. Keep me company later.”

Screw this guy. I can practically feel the panic radiating off the girl. She’s right to be on alert, Jean-Paul clearly has no moral compass. He’s a sleazebag.

“Actually,” I cut in, “I already promised to buy this round.”

I can see the air hitch in her lungs when she turns to look at me, her face flushed from her rising emotions.

“I’ll take two bottles of Corona as well,” I say, aiming my glare at Jean-Paul. His contemptuous sneer doesn’t intimidate me the way I think it’s supposed to. Instead of playing into his testosterone battle, I smile politely. Turning to the girl at my side, I ask, “Okay?”

“Umm...” Oh man, this poor little thing isn’t equipped for dealing with a situation like this on her own.

After throwing some money down on the bar, I hand her the ordered drink. Placing my hand between her shoulder blades, I urge her to turn with me. We move away from the bar and the bartender, who’s busy telling me off in French.

I bend close, so she can hear me. But, hopefully, not close enough to make her more uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, speaking into her ear. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Just figured he wouldn’t back off on his own. Maybe you should stick close to your friends for the rest of the night. Safety in numbers, right?”

Breathing deeply, her body relaxing a little, she nods fervently. “Thank you, you’re really nice,” she says, getting a little closer.

I’m standing too close to a tiny little girl in bunny ears. Her mouth’s only inches from me, and my hand’s still on her back. This is the moment I see Zadie. She’s standing just a few feet away. Her serving tray is held tightly at her side. Her other hand is held up at the base of her throat. She’s staring at me with her brow furrowed and her mouth a tight line.

Our eyes meet, and the world drops away.

All I see is her. All of her.

Her impressive beauty. Her focused determination. Her drive to succeed. Her compassionate nature. All of it. I realize, she’s like me—a survivor. She’s survived circumstance, forgotten dreams, a broken heart, and a wounded soul.

And she’s hurting. She’s scared.

The tiny girl beside me is talking, but I don’t hear a word of it. I’m mesmerized by the vulnerability I see slipping through Zadie’s focused glare. When her eyes widen sharply, it’s like she knows I’ve seen beneath her defenses. Like she realizes she can’t hide from me anymore.

Suddenly, her hand jerks away from her throat, up to cover her mouth. Before I can register what’s happening, she’s in motion, running past us, straight toward a door behind the bar.

“Excuse me,” I tell the girl. “I have to go help my friend.”

“Wait!” She yells, grabbing onto my arm to stop me from going. “Can I have your number?”

“What?” I ask in confusion.

“Maybe we could hook up some time.”

“Hook up?” Shaking my head in disbelief I tug my arm out of her grasp. “I’m not like that jackass behind the bar—I don’t do hook ups.”

I’m revolted by her suggestion, and the thought of being compared to a guy like Jean-Paul. But I push the feeling away as I chase after Zadie.

“Hey!” Jean-Paul yells, when he sees where I’m headed. “You can’t go in there!”

Ignoring him, I don’t slow my determined stride, I walk straight in.

The room’s empty.

A desk and cabinets are to my left and a questionable looking couch sits straight ahead, but no sign of Zadie. I wonder how she disappeared, until I hear her. The muffled sound of Zadie getting sick echoes from behind a door off to my right. Light filters around the edges, highlighting the peeling linoleum floor and carrying the sounds of her retching.

“Zadie?” I call, placing my head and my hand against the door.

“What did I tell you, asshole?” Jean-Paul rages from behind me.

Knocking, I continue to ignore him. “Zadie, are you alright?”

“Get out of here,” Jean-Paul loudly demands. “Go back to your little girlfriend. I’ll take care of Zee.”

“No way in hell am I leaving her alone with you,” I tell him over my shoulder.

A toilet flushes, and water runs. I stand in front of the worn wood, waiting to see if she’s alright.

The door opens as Jean-Paul clamps his hand over my shoulder. “Listen muther-fuker —” he starts in his ridiculously slanted English.

“Please!” Zadie shouts, standing directly in front of me, looking like she’s been completely wrung out. “My head hurts, I don’t need to listen to the two of you bickering like children.”

“Are you alright?” I try to ask. While at the same time, Jean-Paul produces something that sounds like, “Whas da’ madder, sweedness?”

I hate this guy. I hate his smarmy fake concern. I hate the pompous look on his stupid face. It bothers me to think of how long Zadie’s had to deal with him, and what I’m sure constitutes workplace harassment.

“I’m fine. I think I ate something bad,” she lies.

“Okay, good. One minute to clean yourself up, then I need you to get back out there,” the pushy jerk tells her. Looking back at me he orders, “You—get the fuck out of this room, or I’ll throw you out of my bar.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I challenge.

“Enough!” Zadie commands, “I can’t deal with this shit right now. I don’t care who has the bigger fucking sword.”

“Sorry,” I concede. “I’ll go, but only if you’re coming back out there with me. I need to be sure you’re alright.”

Her glare is hostile, making me feel like an even bigger asshole for barging in the way I have. “I can take care of myself,” she insists. “J.P.’s right, you should go back to the girl dressed as a wanna-be centerfold. Wouldn’t want to keep your date waiting.”

“She’s not my date. I’m here with Chante. I don’t even know that girl’s name, but I think she’s supposed to be a rabbit.”

Color rises in her cheeks, her angry scowl intensifying.

Instead of continuing to enforce my removal, Jean-Paul snickers at me, like the asshole he is. He doesn’t need to yell any longer; I’m sure he can see I’ve dug my own hole.

“Whatever, Caleb. It doesn’t matter. We’re not even friends anymore—right? Go have a good time with whoever you like. I’ve got work to do.”

She pushes her way between me and Jean-Paul, heading back out to the club and leaving me alone with the French dick.

“You fucked that up good,” he laughs.

Leave it to the asshole to point out the obvious. Too bad he’s completely right.

“Stay away from Zadie,” I warn him.

The anger I’ve kept simmering, just below the surface, threatens to boil over. I’m angry at this dickwad. I’m angry at the situation. But most of all, I’m angry at myself for letting things get to this point to begin with.

Maybe if I were more of a man and less of a boy, still living in a fantasy world, then I’d know what to do. How to fix this. I probably wouldn’t have messed it all up to begin with.

“Or what?” he challenges.

Or what? What are you going to do, Cal?

Without an answer, I simply shoot him an angry scowl and leave his precious room. I know how I want to answer. I want to tell him that I’ll beat the shit out of him if thoughts of Zadie even enter his mind. But I could never act on that threat. Violence kind of disgusts me, although my thoughts about this douchebag are savage.

My mood is grey.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve felt this low, my outlook this bleak. This is the first time it’s not because of cancer. Things are bad. Very bad. But they’re never hopeless.

I can’t give up. I won’t.

Not when Zadie showed that hint of cracked emotion. She wasn’t just angry at me, or hurt by my refusal to play friends, I think she was jealous. Jealous of the tiny, bunny girl.

Jealous or not, she needs me. She may not know it yet, but she will.

That’s all the hope I need. A crack will do.

***

Zadie

LAUGHTER AND MUSIC GREET me as I let myself into Chante’s place. I can’t see them, but Chante and Caleb sound like they’re having a good time.

For a moment, I hesitate at the door. I wonder if it’s still okay for me to come and go at will, now that I’ve made things so hostile between me and Caleb. Maybe he won’t want me making this my second home anymore. But then I remember how angry I am with him, and realize I don’t give a shit if he wants me here or not.

The way he walked out the other night, right after I told him I was pregnant. After I practically begged to be his friend. It maddened me. My body was still pumping adrenaline when he left. Partly from telling him the truth. Partly from the toe-curling kiss he’d delivered. Once his departure truly registered, my system crashed. I ended up a shaking, heaving mess.

The toilet bowl and I have become very well acquainted.

Then, when he dares to shows his face around me again, he does it while flirting with another girl. Like our friendship was as fake as the pretend date. Like kissing me made no difference at all. Like I didn’t matter.

Never mind, I tell myself. I’m not going to let anything take away from my good mood. I’ve been sporting a goofy smile and sparkling eyes for the last couple of hours. The idea of pregnancy glow is probably borne from moments like this one—a moment of happiness so epic, I’m high with giddy excitement.

All from one trip to the doctor.

Well, the health clinic to be exact. My high isn’t about the pregnancy. It’s from the results of my STD testing. The clean results, in black and white, are folded neatly into an envelope in my pocket. The twinkle in my eye is from the leftover tears I didn’t predict and can’t seem to stop.

Knowing that I’m clean is great. Even knowing that Sean is probably in the clear makes me feel good. But it’s the well-being of the tiny creature growing inside me that’s most important. Knowing my baby hasn’t been negatively affected by my poor life choices puts me over-the-moon.

My smile doesn’t subside when I step into the living room and find the furniture all pushed against the walls. Chante and Caleb are in the center of the room—a skateboard under Chante’s feet. Her eyes are squeezed shut as she wobbles on the board, clutching onto Caleb’s arm like he’s her center of gravity.

“Just breathe,” Caleb instructs. “You’ve got to relax or you really will fall.”

“How do you do it? You jump around on this thing and do all those crazy tricks. You make it look so easy.” Chante declares with a panicked laugh.

I like that they haven’t noticed me. I love seeing the two of them this way—acting like kids, having fun. Even if it also makes me a little jealous.

“You here for a lesson too?” Caleb asks, his eyes lifting to mine.

“Wha...” Chante starts in confusion, looking up in haste.

The skateboard gets away from her. She tilts backward as the board slides forward. It’s imperceptible at first, as though in slow motion. Then with sudden blinding speed, it launches across the room, straight toward me.

Acting on nothing more than instinct, I cover my stomach, curling in on myself. The skateboard hits me in the head.

“Zadie!” Caleb shouts, “Shit! Are you okay?”

His hands are on me. My head hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but all I can focus on is the fact that Caleb is touching me. He’s gentle. He’s caring. The headache blossoming across the top of my head isn’t fully from the blow. It’s also from the dilemma, tearing apart my mind.

I don’t want him to ever stop touching me.

I want to talk to him, to register how awkward things are going to be between us, to tell him how I’m feeling. Except, I don’t want to look at his face, I’m still so bloody mad.

“Let me look,” Chante demands, pushing him out of her way.

I almost cry out at the loss of his touch. But that could also be from the sore spot on my head. Chante’s expertly probing it with her professional grace.

“How’s your vision?” she asks.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” she insists, her eyes moving down the length of my body.

“Yes, Chante. Everything is fine.”

“I’m banning you from skateboarding,” Caleb says, pointing to Chante. “Maybe anything on wheels. You’re a freaking menace.”

“Oh, fuck off. I can’t help if you’re a lousy teacher,” she retorts.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be skateboarding in the house?” I suggest.

With a smirk, Caleb expertly tosses the board to the ground and hops onto it. With a tricky little push and a kick, he somehow launches it once again into the air. This time, the board does a spin and a flip before landing smoothly back on the floor. Caleb lands solidly on top of it.

“Still a fucking show off,” Chante mutters.

I want to cheer and jump around like a hyper cheerleader, but all I manage to do is stand with my mouth hanging open. “Seriously,” I say. “You make it look so easy. How do you do it?”

“I worked at it,” he says. “It’s easy now, but it wasn’t always. It took a lot of time and effort. But some things are worth the effort—some things give you a rush, even when you’re going slow and steady.”

I can’t tell if the heat crawling up my face is from his familiar words, or from the evocative way he’s looking at me.

“I need to get ready,” Chante says. “Zadie, you’re obviously fine. Why don’t the two of you go hang out like the degenerates that you are? Some of us have to work.”

Smiling slyly, Caleb raises that damn cute eyebrow at me. “What do you say, Zadie? Want to go hang out? Could be fun.”

Yes, it could be. I imagine hanging out with him in the park. Me bundled in a sweater. Him dominating a sketchy looking board on four wheels. He’d make it look effortless. I’d watch from the sidelines, appreciating the graceful way his body moves. Maybe with some more coaxing he’d convince me to give it a try, giving us an excuse to touch each other again.

The look in his eyes hints that his fantasy’s not far from mine, but fun isn’t exactly in the cards for us right now. Not with the rage still in my system, and the goose-egg forming on my skull.

“I can’t,” I dismiss, my head now throbbing. “Chante, can I talk to you a minute?”

“If you don’t mind talking through the shower curtain. I’m running late.”

Walking ahead of her, I don’t dare glance at Caleb—I don’t want to see his reaction to my brush off. The bitchy part of me kind of hopes he’s disappointed. The other part of me—the part that wants to feel his body next to mine again—can’t manage the guilt.

Chante whispers something to him before following me to her room. I don’t know what it’s about, and at this point, I don’t know if I should care. All I want is to step back in time to ten minutes ago. Back to the feeling of joyful exuberance.

“So?” Chante demands. Closing her bedroom door, she casually starts stripping. She leaves a trail of clothing, like breadcrumbs, as she walks to her bathroom.

“So?” I ask, diverting my eyes to the floor. She may be fine with her nudity but it still makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

“Babe, you’re the one that wanted to talk. So, talk.”

“It’s nothing. Well, not true—it’s actually everything.” There’s no response from behind the shower curtain, just the lull of the rushing water. “I got my test results back. They’re clear.”

“That’s good news.” Her reply is clipped, almost annoyed sounding. Chante’s not the fuzziest girl I’ve ever known, but even for her, this is a bit cold.

“I was worried. I mean, I’m still worried, but now it’s just about the other stuff.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Zadie. When will you stop with the hiding and the avoidance?”

“What?”

The water shuts off, and the curtain whips open. Chante stands in all her natural glory, glaring at me with a hand on her hip. “You.” She points at me. “Need to start acting like a responsible adult. You’re going to be a mother, after all. Call Sean, tell him about the baby, you’ll feel better. Then, quit stringing Caleb along, tell him the truth about the baby, about how you feel. He’ll accept it, trust me. This is real life, Zadie, not an episode of 16 and Pregnant.”

“Can you put on some clothes, please,” I ask, handing her the robe hanging from the door hook.

Ignoring the offered garment, she steps out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the bar and walks past me to her room. “I’ve got to go, I don’t have time for this.”

“Why are you so mad at me? I plan on calling Sean. I just need to work up to it—he’s not exactly my favorite person.”

“Well, you seemed to have no problem with him when you were fucking him.” Her angry words are punctuated by the forceful way she closes the dresser drawer. “There’s no doubt you were screwing him, right? That is how babies are made after all.”

Chante and I have fought over everything. From dull shit, like is the paint on the wall eggshell or cream. To the most existential of arguments, like is Degrassi The Next Generation better than the original. Never, in all our bickering has she spoken to me this way. Even with her blunt, tell-it-how-it-is attitude, she’s never been so harshly cruel.

Heat radiates from my cheeks, the wound on my head now throbbing in time to my accelerated heartbeat. My tears—no longer happy—threaten to overflow.

“Fuck, and now the tears,” she condemns. “Listen, I love you, but I can’t handle your insecurity. You know what you want—why are you letting this irrational fear hold you back? Just dive in. You know how to swim, and you know I’ll be holding the life jacket, just in case.”

“I’m scared,” I admit.

“I know babe. I know. I’m scared too. Every single day. Every time I walk into the emergency room I’m scared someone’s going to figure out I don’t belong there. Or that a patient’s case is going to be too complicated and I’ll lose someone. Or...” Her chest is heaving, her eyes glassy. “Never mind. I’m sorry—I’m totally projecting. This is about you, not me. You’ll be fine. I’m here for you. Other people want to be here for you too, but you have to let them. You can’t stay closed off forever.”

I want to believe her, I want to believe she’s right. I know she believes it, and yet it does absolutely nothing to dampen the doubt that I’m plagued with. I’m not sure I can trust my best friend. I know Sean’s not reliable. Not to mention, the real rejection I’ve already received from Caleb. Protecting myself is the only option.

“I’ve really got to go. Please, just think about it. Okay?”

“Okay,” I tell her, as she’s walking away.

Before I’m able to collect my thoughts, or put one foot in front of the other, she’s out the apartment door. She’s gone.

Now, I realize how far apart we’ve fallen. So far apart, she doesn’t even know I’ve already told Caleb about the baby.

***

Caleb

I’VE BARELY FINISHED PUTTING the living room furniture back in place when Chante goes flying by me. She doesn’t say goodbye, just slams the door on her way out.

Something’s off with her, and she’s not doing a very good job of hiding it. She’s been a tornado of emotion for days now. Those of us in her path get tossed in whatever upheaval she’s experiencing. This time it’s Zadie taking the hit. I couldn’t hear what was being said but the tone was clear, even through the closed bedroom door.

Now the door hangs open and Zadie’s on the other side, standing motionless with her back to me. At least she’s still standing—Chante didn’t completely obliterate her.

Other than the slight rise and fall of her shoulders, she still hasn’t moved.

“Zadie?” I call, making my way toward her.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey, are you alright?” I try again, bravely stepping closer.

She still doesn’t react, her small frame like a statue.

“Zadie?” I whisper, feeling like an intruder. I get as close as I dare, close enough to reach out and touch her on the shoulder.

Finally, she turns to me, letting out a desperate sounding sob. Her face is streaked with tears, her nose red from crying. I can’t stand seeing her like this. She’s so good at hiding her hurts and her fears. Even though I know she’s got them, it’s painful to see the evidence.

Tightening my hold on her shoulder, I pull her, unwillingly, toward me. “Ah, Zadie. Come here. I’m sorry,” I tell her as I soothe my hand over her back.

Pushing me away, she scowls up at me while wiping her face. “You should be fucking sorry. I’m so mad at you.” Her words sound more hurt than angry. This girl—this woman—she’s not going to take crap from me, or anyone else. She is bravery in the flesh and she’s impossible for me to resist.

How the hell could she ever expect me to be just her friend?

“You should be,” I agree. “I’m angry at myself. I’ve made everything between us difficult, and I totally ruined our first date.”

“Our first date?” Her eyes widen. “You say that like you think there’s going to be more. I told you I’m pregnant, Cal... I’m pregnant.”

The pulse in her neck beats visibly. I want to run my tongue over it. Suck on it. See just how fast I can make her heart race. If she calls me Cal one more time, I may not be able to control myself.

“Are you getting back together with Sean?” I challenge.

Jolting back a step, like I struck her, she folds her arms over her middle. The look she gives me is shocked distress. “What?” she gasps. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I don’t know—you’re having his kid, aren’t you? It didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. I figured you’d at least consider it since you’ve taken him back before.”

Narrowing her eyes, she steps back toward me, pointing her finger into my chest. “You think I’m that weak? You think I can’t do this on my own?”

“Of course not. I think you’re incredibly strong and exceedingly capable. I know you can make it on your own, but you shouldn’t have to.”

Tears start flowing down her face again. Her pointed finger curls into a tight fist, my shirt captured in it.

“I don’t know if I can,” she admits, her voice cracking with emotion. “I don’t feel very strong. Crying’s the only thing I seem capable of.” Choking down a sob, a look of pure anguish takes over her features. She looks so broken.

Still, so fucking beautiful.

Without thought, I embrace her. My arms curl lightly around her shoulders, my hands cupping her head to my chest. I hold her there, gently.

I half expect her to reject me again, to push me away or to remind me that being just friends means no hugging, no touching. But she doesn’t. The opposite, in fact. Her body sags into me, her forehead resting on my chest, her hands molding firmly to my sides.

And then she sighs.

I never knew an exhale could be so intricate. So penetrating. So profound. Her breath feathers up and out, lacing around me and pulling me in.

“When I was thirteen,” I tell her softly. “I broke my arm—fractured it in three places—skateboarding, of course. At the time, it was the worst pain I’d ever felt. But I didn’t cry. I sucked up all the pain, held it in tight. Until the doctor examining me picked up on something else. He didn’t say anything, but he had this look on his face and I could tell it was something way worse than a broken arm. I had no idea what might be wrong—had no reason to cry—but I’ve never bawled harder in all my life.”

Shifting her head, she rests her cheek against me, her hands moving up my sides. I continue holding her tenderly.

“What was it?” she whispers.

“Cancer.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, but I halt her words with my own. “Sometimes there’s no choice, Zadie. Sometimes, the strength finds us.”

We stand in silence—her clutching me tightly, me breathing her in deeply. This time, our silence feels truly connected. No more invisible barriers holding us back.

Clearing her throat, she starts to push away, lifting her head from its resting spot. She looks up at me with those big eyes that I can’t resist—eyes so full of uncertainty—and I’m suddenly on fire.

Burning with urgency.

It’s an overwhelming need to fix the part that’s broken. To make things better for her. To give her more. “I think you need to de-stress. Why don’t you let me start you a bath? I’ll light you some candles and help you relax. We can turn up some music—you can just bliss out. What do you say?”

Sniffling a bit, she nods her head. “Yeah, okay. That actually sounds really nice.”

She looks for candles in Chante’s room, while I start the water in my bathroom. Finding the bubble-bath that was there when I moved in, I pour a hefty amount under the running tap. The room fills with steam as the water runs hot. Foam covers the entire surface of the tub. It bubbles up, threatening to spill over the sides, just as Zadie enters with a lit candle.

“Ummmm... I think you may have overdone the bubbles, just a little.” She laughs.

“It’s fine. All the better to relax you with, my dear.” I tease, waggling my eyebrows at her. “Music preference?”

“Something mellow. I trust you to get it right.”

She trusts me.

It may be inconsequential. It’s just music selection, after all. But it feels good to hear her speak those words so effortlessly. So truthfully. Warmth expands, growing inside me. The wall she’s built between us keeps falling—brick by invisible brick.

My phone’s already on the audio dock in my room. Scrolling through my playlists, I smile when I find a song that says it all. I set Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You on repeat and turn up the volume before returning to the bath.

Ignoring the closed door, I walk straight in, bobbing my head to the slow steady beat of the music.

She’s naked from the waist up. Immediately, she jumps to grab her top. She holds it up to cover herself, but not before I have a chance to admire her heavenly breasts. The flickering candle light casts a warm glow over her milky skin.

It’s a quick flash, but both my mind and my body appreciate the unintentional seduction.  

“Cal! What are you doing?”

“Helping,” I explain. “I told you I would. Just turn around, I’m not going to look.”

She hesitates briefly but, keeping her shirt held firmly to her breast, does as I ask, turning her bare back to me.

I’m mesmerized by the messy tumble of her dark hair as it shifts against her pale, exposed skin. So much skin. Freckled and supple. Tempting as hell.

I’ve always found women to be enigmatic, dazzling creatures. All women. I never really thought I had a type. But after seeing Zadie’s half-bare body... The way her slim waist is emphasized by the delicious curve of her hips. The swell of her bottom. The thickness of her thighs. Her hands, hiding those luscious fucking globes of perfection. I realize, I most definitely have a type. A very specific type.

Gathering her hair, I move it off her neck. My aim is to pile it high on her head—the way I’ve seen her do it herself—but I get distracted. The graceful curve of her neck beckons to me. It’s so slender, so smooth. With one hand in her hair, and my other moving to her shoulder, I bend down and place a kiss on her nape. She flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.

So I do it again.

I run my lips over her fragrant skin, from her hairline down to where my hand holds her firmly. Her breathing increases, coming out in little panting bursts, leading me to believe she’s as turned on as I am.

Testing my theory, I kiss her again. And then, very slowly, very deliberately, run my tongue up the long line of her neck, all the way to the spot behind her ear.

She tastes like sugar mixed with sweat, and I love it.

When I kiss her ear, adding in a playful bite, she moans.

My theories all prove true.

She wants me. Or, at least she wants this physical contact. I’m at a point where distinguishing between the two is irrelevant—my body’s screaming at me to do something. Do more.

Touch her. Touch yourself. Fuck her. Now, now, now!

My body’s a fucking traitor, so I ignore it.

Grasping her shoulder tighter, I pull her back into me, until our bodies are almost flush. Letting go of her hair, I reach around and pop the button on her pants.

Her inhale is jagged, almost panicked.

“Take off your clothes and get in the tub,” I say softly, in her ear. “I’m going to close my eyes.”

“What?”

“I promise not to look. Get under the bubbles, and let me know when you’re covered.”

I kiss the shell of her ear and then promptly step away from her—my hands protesting their loss. My throbbing erection curses me and every chivalrous thought that ever crossed my mind.

She turns to me, looking expectant. I almost forgot my promise not to watch, immediately after making it. The temptation is real.

“I’ll turn around,” I tell her. I say it out loud, otherwise my body might not get the message.

When my back is to her I listen intently for the sound of her clothing being removed. She’s quiet, but there’s a distinct sound of something hitting the floor—most likely her pants. There’s a small splash as she gets into the tub.

I imagine she’s slow and graceful. I imagine she’s glistening and gorgeous.

Fuck, I’m imagining a hell of a lot.

“Okay,” she says, “It’s safe to look.”

Turning toward her, I try not to seem too eager. Slowly, I step close to the tub, stopping when my foot hits the mat on the floor.

“I guess it’s a good thing I put in so many bubbles, eh? If I couldn’t see your beautiful face, I’d wonder if you were actually in there.”

Lies.

I can see a hell of a lot more than just her face—probably too much—but she doesn’t need to know that. I can restrain myself from looking. Mostly.

“Were you planning on getting in here with me?” she asks. Is that a hint of trepidation in her voice, or a touch of lust?

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. Especially not for two people who are just friends. Do you?”

Her face heats, making her look young and innocent.

“Besides,” I reassure. “Getting in there would make this about me. That’s not why I’m here. This is about you.”

Crouching down, my knees hitting the bath mat, I keep my eyes on hers as I lean on the lip of the tub.

“I wasn’t sure what you were expecting,” she admits.

“The only thing I want is for you to feel better, nothing more. I’ll do whatever it takes to help that happen. Please tell me this is helping.”

“It’s helping.”

“Maybe you had other expectations?” I ask, getting even closer. Getting even braver.

Leaning over, I dip my hand into the tub.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“I told you, I’m helping,” I say. My smirk feels foreign—arrogant and predatory.

Bracing my hand on the bottom of the tub, I lean in, until my mouth is hot against her ear again. Her breath is now a rapid pant.

“This is where you get a choice. No judgments are being made, no rules or boundaries are being set. You’re free to decide. You can have whatever you want and there won’t be any repercussions. I mean that. You can’t make a wrong choice here. No matter what you pick, it won’t change my opinion of you. Okay?”

Her head nods fervently, a mumbled “Okay” leaving her parted lips.

“You can either tell me to fuck off and leave you to help yourself, or you can let me touch you—let me help you feel good.”

“God,” she moans. “This... I don’t know about this.”

“No problem,” I tell her, kissing her cheek and moving back slightly, catching her eye.

“Wait!”

My smile grows wide, like a wolf hungrily eying his prey. I want to devour her. I want to possess her. It’s the most out of control I’ve ever felt. It’s a strange, new, unyielding feeling.

And I love it.

I’m at the brink of no fucking return.

“You want to change your mind?” I ask.

“I didn’t make a decision. I can’t make that kind of decision. I suck so badly at choosing.” Her fears are honest and stark.

“Then I’ll choose for you.” I know what she wants. She knows what she wants. She’s just too afraid to say it.

My hand eases up off the bottom of the tub, leaning even further into her. I hold her stare and share her heavy breath as I cautiously stroke up her hip. Down the outside of her thigh. And back up over her other leg.

Her eyes bounce back and forth between my own, the pinch between her brow sharpening. Uneasy excitement sweeps over her features. I bite my lip and move my hand between her legs, cupping her gently.

She sighs, closing her eyes and tipping her head back. Moving back to her ear, I whisper hotly, “Did I make the right choice?”

“Yes,” she softly moans.

That’s all it takes. I want to go slow. Want to treat her like the delicate flower I know she is. But I can’t. I’m not sure how to hold back when my adrenaline’s pumping, and my mind is filled with greed and need and fucking sex.

I think I may want this as badly as she does. And the way she’s breathing. The way her hips move in small thrusts, pushing herself into my hand. I think she needs it just as badly as I do too.

“Open up.” I encourage her to move her legs aside as my mouth moves under her jaw, licking, kissing and sucking.

She does exactly as I ask, and I waste no time. My hand does what the rest of my body craves—touches her. It’s an exploration into unknown territory. A discovery of miracles. A challenge of the highest order.

A challenge I’m determined to win.

Her hips buck as I explore her flesh, my fingers running circles over and around her sensitive bud. She groans loudly, and like her laugh, it’s music to my fucking ears. I follow her lead, dipping first one, and then two fingers into her heat.

With my fingers moving rhythmically inside of her and my thumb dancing over top, I let her reactions guide me. I give her what she wants.

The bath turns to a pool of small waves as we pick up the tempo. The water sloshes up my arm and splashes against the porcelain. I relish the feeling of her hips, gyrating against me. With her pleasure, literally in the palm of my hand, and her voice—those sweet sounding, ecstatic little moans—I’m close to coming in my goddamn pants.

She suddenly grabs hold of me, squeezing her hand around my forearm. “Cal,” she pleads. “Please, I’m so close.”

“Tell me what you need, Zadie.”

Shaking her head from side to side, she cries, “Just don’t stop.”

I don’t stop. I give her more.

Murmuring into her ear, I tell her how beautiful she is, how sexy she sounds, and how amazing she feels. I beg her to let go, beg her to come, as I fuck her wildly with my hand.

With an anguished sounding cry, she comes undone, and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her face is flush, her breathing labored. She looks so real, so unrestrained, so goddamn trusting and breakable.

She continues to pulse around my fingers. With her nails dug into my arm, and her legs tight around my hand, she begins to sob.

“Hey.” Slowly, I remove my hand from between her legs. “Shhh... It’s okay,” I tell her, kissing her cheek and stroking her thigh.

“I’m sorry,” she heaves. “I’m sorry.” And for a moment, I think she’s just overwhelmed, her grasp on my arm is still desperate and she leans into me as she cries.

“What are you talking about?” I cup her face in my palm. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“You don’t get it, Caleb,” she cries, shaking her head out of my hold. “I can’t do this with you. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Letting go of my arm, she brings her knees up to her chest, and shutting her eyes, locks me out.

“Can you leave the room, please?” Her words punch a hole in my gut. “I need to get dressed. I need to go home.”

“Please don’t do this,” I beg. “I promise –"

Her head falls to her knees, her sobs heavy and loud. “Go!” Her demand is muffled and weak—devastating.

But it’s still clear.

I’ve ruined this. Only, I’ve no idea how.