Page 14 of Tell Me Again

I can’t imagine what my expression looks like right now. But I know how I feel. Fresh guilt—and a lot of it—builds up in my chest. Dammit. How had I missed this? How had I not even known his mom had died?

He shifts his focus back to the pool game, but this time when he takes his shot, the cue ball completely misses its target.

“Fuck. Your turn.”

Chapter Seven

Coop

I lean against the wall, my beer in one hand and the pool cue in the other, watching as Josh lines up his next shot. There’s something funny going on in my chest, and I’m not sure I like it. Maybe it’s the beer. I don’t really drink very often.

Or maybe it’s the company.

No, I’m gonna assume that’s not it. After all, it’s not like today is really going to change anything. We can’t ever go back to how things were, even if something inside me seems to want to. Too much has fucking happened for that. It’s been too long, and we’re obviously much too different now. Right?

I mean, he’s a fucking physical therapist. Who fucking helps the elderly. And I’m broke and uneducated with pretty much nothing to my name.

I’m not even good friend material, much less boyfriend material.

And fuck, I mean, he’s engaged. And probably straight. Not to even mention all that shit that happened—his dad coming after me, following me out of the house with a fucking baseball bat.

Fuck.

Even if he wasn’t straight, that might have been enough to scare him straight.

He’s leaning over, biting at his lower lip as he lines up the cue with the cue ball. And my fucking traitorous eyes watch, fixed on his mouth, reminding me how that kiss felt. How he tasted. How soft those lips were. How good it finally felt, that flutter in my chest. Like what I’m feeling right now.

It is the company.

God, why the fuck did I even agree to this?

He takes his shot, and it seems all luck, since the cue stubs into the table right before it hits the cue ball, but he finally manages to sink one. The number nine ball rolls slowly, barely making it to the corner pocket before it tumbles in.

“Yes! Ha! You totally didn’t see that one coming, did you?” He grins at me, his eyes sparkling or some shit. And god, that annoying thing in my chest happens again.

“I most certainly did not,” I say, and I force a smile back as I take another swig of my beer.

His eyes linger on mine for a second longer than they really need to, and he’s still grinning like an idiot. But I’m really not gonna complain. It’s a sexy look. Shit.

I tear my eyes away and look back toward the front of the bar. We’re still the only ones here. And that’s good, I guess. Except that Sarge is eyeing me with a little too much curiosity. Fucking Sarge. I guess I should have expected that too.

I don’t really get out much, especially just to hang out like this. I stop in here for a beer maybe once or twice a month, usually after a fucking long shift or if it’s been a particularly decent night with tips. And though I’ve never really come out to anyone, I’m sure there’ve been plenty of rumors. There are always rumors. Small-town gossip. Shit like that. Sarge probably hears all of it.

When’s Coop gonna bring a nice girl home?

A nice girl? Oh, no, honey, I don’t think he swings that way.

Not that I’ve ever brought a nice boy home either. Dammit. Fucking Sarge is gonna have a field day with this one.

I roll my eyes at him and then turn back to Josh, who’s staring at the pool table now, maybe planning his next shot. Or maybe he’s thinking about something else entirely.

Like me.

And as I watch him now, I give myself permission for just a moment. I let myself drift to that time in my life when everything had been so much... better, and I can almost imagine that things are how they used to be—us as best friends, fucking inseparable. Instead of this run-down bar, we’re back at his parents’ old place in Garrington, out in the garage, joking around and wasting time, playing pool and drinking way too much Coke. And he beats me, because he always does. Every fucking game. But he doesn’t gloat about it. He just says—with a smile and a conviction I don’t really understand—that I’ll beat him next time. And we play again.

I swallow hard against the tightness that’s formed in my chest. It’s a fucking daydream. We’re not there. We’re here. And we’re not best friends anymore. Fuck, we’re not even really friends at all.

This is just a fucking ruse. Why the fuck did I agree to it?

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