Page 22 of Covetous

I never imagined we’d be heading down the aisle this quickly, but then again, why delay the inevitable? The more I think about it, the more excited I become. We have a whole year ahead of us to strengthen our bond—to mend whatever rifts have formed between us.

Ian drives me home with the top down on his BMW convertible, holding my hand across the center console the entire time. My lips curl into a gentle smile as sweet love songs fill the airwaves. When Sabrina Claudio’s “I Don’t” starts to play, a bittersweet feeling tugs at my heart, dampening my smile. The lyrics tell a story about a woman who finds herself in a vicious cycle of always forgiving the man she loves, only for him to turn around and repeat the same mistakes.

I’m getting lost in the words and Sabrina’s angelic voice when Ian brings my hand up to his lips, kissing it softly. Then he lowers my hand to his lap and turns the radio off, bathing the car in silence mid-song.

We arrive at my house around noon. Because it’s a Monday, I don’t expect anyone to be home. But when I roll my luggage through the front door, Esme stands from the couch, looking past me out the open door.

“It’s just me.” As I close the door behind me, the sound of Ian’s car driving away from the house fades into the distance.

“Can we talk?”

This conversation is not something I’m excited about, but it needs to happen. “Sure. But can we do this upstairs? I have to get ready for work.”

“Yeah. No problem.” She follows me up the stairs, the old wood creaking under our combined weight.

“Are you still quitting at the beginning of August?”

“Yep. I could use a month off before grad school.” I’ve decided to quit Posh after four years there. If it weren’t for the money from my grandparents’ will, I wouldn’t have the luxury to do so.

Stepping into my bedroom, I fidget as nerves send my heart into a flutter. I settle onto the bed, seeking some semblance of calm. The air is charged with a silent tension as Esme claims her spot at my desk, her hands instinctively smoothing over the well-worn denim of her jeans. “Do you remember how Victor tried to get at me when he first saw me at the gym, but I turned him down because of how you felt about him?” Her voice, usually so bold, now carries a tremor of hesitance.

“I remember.” The involuntary push of my glasses up my nose is a clear sign of my apprehension.

“And you also know that we became sort of friends after that. We started working out together, sometimes smoking weed in his car in the gym parking lot.”

“Mm-hmm.” How could I forget? They’d become close. Not lovers-close, but still close in a way I hadn’t expected.

“You told me not to mention you, so I didn’t. But he eventually found out that you and I were best friends.”

“Through your Instagram feed,” I say, filling in the blanks.

“Right.” She chews on her bottom lip. “I didn’t tell you, but he stopped flirting with me after that. Shit went cold.”

“He was still flirting with you up to that point?” It would make sense that he was; though, at the time, I didn’t want to imagine it. It was hard enough to imagine them as friends. He and I never even got that far back in high school.

She nods, a grim sort of look in her eyes. “Things were cool before that. The chemistry was fire, even though we hadn’t taken things further. Then, one day, when we were smoking, he started talking about you.”

This is the part I’m both dreading and wanting to know. The moment of truth. “What did he say?”

“It fucking sucked when he started going on and on about how pretty and smart you were back in high school, and how you were still fucking stunning in all your IG pictures.” She rolls her eyes. “And how he’d wanted you, but he wasn’t right for you because he wasn’t ready to change his fuckboy ways. I’m paraphrasing.”

Overwhelmed and unable to speak, I clear my throat. “So he stayed away.”

“He’d already promised Isabella he wouldn’t screw around with any of her friends. That was another reason he kept his distance from you.”

My heart clenches at her words, but I try to keep my composure. “Makes sense.”

She furrows her brow. “Are you okay? I thought you’d be pissed or, I don’t know, sad or whatever.”

“I’m not sad. When I first overheard everything, I was surprised and upset.”

She looks guilty, her eyes darting away from mine.

“But I’m not anymore. I’m more concerned with how you’re doing. What he said about not seeing a future with you…”

“We cleared the air this past weekend,” she says, but the casual shrug of her shoulders doesn’t quite match the seriousness of her words. “And I only brought you up because he’d pissed me off.”

“So you guys are good, then?”

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