Inviting Lily and her friend to join Riley and me at breakfast is a dick move—I know it—but I do it anyway. Why? Because Riley is fucking with my head, that’s why. For years I’ve been struggling to keep her firmly planted in the “friends” column. It was damn hard, because there were times when I thought she wanted more. Times like when we kissed in my bedroom senior year, or the day after prom, when we ditched our crew to spend the day together, or last night. Especially last night. Fuck.

Had I been drinking? Yeah, I had some beers that made me a bit more brazen than usual, but I wasn’t drunk. Don’t get me wrong, I thought I was when she came out of the bathroom dressed in only panties and a thin tank top. Christ, her tits looked amazing in that shirt, her puckered nipples straining against the fabric. It took everything in me not to run my lips across the swell, suck the plump flesh into my mouth, bite her nipples. I had to touch her or I would go crazy.

When I crawled into bed beside her and she reached for me, it was the only green light I needed. And when I touched her? Her body responded in the way I had only dreamt about—wet, breathy, needy—and she couldn’t deny it, because I felt it. Felt her.

Our connection was damn near electric, and I knew just one tiny push, one little shove would tip us both into nirvana. But just when I’d been sure that last night was the night—the night I’d been dreaming about for nearly half my life—she stopped us. I felt her fear, sensed the uncertainty, the hesitation, and I would never push her for more than she wanted to give. I care about her too much, but even more than that, I don’t think I could bear it if she regretted us in the morning.

So I do the only thing I know how to do well, the thing I’ve been doing for years…I plaster a smile on my face and pretend like she isn’t ripping my fucking heart out. The icing on the cake? Her referring to me like a brother after I almost had my hands inside her. What the fuck?

When Lily approaches our table I can tell almost immediately that Riley doesn’t like her. To be honest, the more I think about it, I’m not sure Riley has ever liked one of my girlfriends—okay, I’m using the term girlfriend very loosely, but you get my point. Riley is territorial and I like it. It makes me feel like I am hers. Like she is mine.

But today, because I’m hurting, I want Riley to hurt a little, too, so I flirt shamelessly with Lily and imply that Riley is nothing more than a friend. That’s what we are, after all. Riley made that crystal clear. I even contemplate, for a fraction of a second, letting her walk back to my dorm alone.

Of course, I would never actually do that—she’s my best friend—but as we walk the slow path back in silence, I wonder if I did the right thing. Maybe I should have just let her go. Let her walk away.

This is too hard. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I have to move on with my fucking life.

“Riley,” I call after her, as she quickens her pace to catch the open elevator. We both hurry in just as the door closes, and cram ourselves beside four other people. No one speaks, and normally I’d crack a joke about awkward elevator silences, but now isn’t the time.

We get off on my floor, and I stop her just before we enter my room. I don’t want to have this conversation in front of Lucas. The dude already thinks I’m in love with Riley—he isn’t wrong—but still, I don’t need to add fuel to the fire.

“Riley.” I search her eyes, but she casts her own down toward the floor. “Hey.” I squeeze her arm. “Are we okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”

I scrub a hand through my hair, which has grown out a little longer than my normal cut. “It’s just…back there”—I gesture with my chin toward the cafeteria—“things felt a little weird.”

“I agree.” She brings her eyes to mine. “It was a weird weekend. We both missed each other and college has been a big change…for both of us.” She pauses, bites her lip. “Let’s forget anything ever happened?” Her voice rises at the end, making her statement sound like a question. She’s asking for my agreement, my confirmation so that things can go back to normal between us. I experience an almost paralyzing sense of déjà vu. It’s like the fucking kiss all over again.

There are so many things I want to say her, so many ways I want to love her, and touch her, and cherish her, but I know that isn’t what she needs—at least, not yet—so I give her what she asks and force my voice to sound confused. “What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”

Her body sags in relief and she smiles, a wide, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

I extend my pinkie and she latches hers with mine. I pause for a beat and stare at our entwined fingers, hoping one day she’ll want me the same way I want her. Until then, I have to let her go, and I pray, fucking pray, that one day her heart—her whole heart—will find its way back to me.