Page 25 of A Forever Love

“Books? You mean actual physical books?” I come to a stop and take off my sunglasses. “What happened to the Kindle I got you?”

“That was ages ago.” Her voice takes on a slightly higher pitch, and her nose twitches. Seeing that I’m not catching on to why she’s the one annoyed, she releases the bag handle. “I’ve had two more devices since then. But the bottom line is, reading on an e-reader and reading the physical book are two completely different experiences.”

“But the story is the same.” I keep my frown and stifle my smile. I’d take her agitated any day over the silent treatment she’s throwing my way. In an era of fleeting three-second videos, Merida is someone who thrives on minimal technology use despite her background as a software engineer. If there was a gang of digital minimalists, she’d likely be the chairman of it. She once told me about a famous programmer who doesn’t touch his laptop unless he’s fully satisfied with his code on paper.

She runs her hands down her face and groans. “Like I said, the feeling is entirely different.”

“You’re as cryptic as ever, mittens.”

She must finally realize that I don’t grasp whatever feeling she’s referring to, because her shoulders slump in resignation. “And you’re as dense as ever.” She bypasses me, entering the building without so much as a glance, and a faint twitch plays at the corner of my lips.

After I got us coffee, she feigned sleep. At some point, I seriously questioned my decision to agree to Keith’s request of accompanying her, but thankfully, halfway through the trip, she asked me if I still had her playlist. Her lips twitched and her eyes began to sparkle the moment Eric Clapton’s voice filled the space.

There aren’t many people left in my life I give a damn about, but Mere is definitely one of those few. Her sudden departure from St. Peppers and the loss of contact with everyone took us all by surprise. But I know she didn’t leave due to some teenage tantrum.

I steal a glance at her and observe the significant changes she’s undergone in the last four years. Her usual baggy T-shirts and jeans have been swapped with a red floral dress that hits her knees. Her once unruly red hair is now tamed into a long braid cascading over one shoulder, with a few stray curls escaping to frame her forehead.

Merida nods and smiles at Sam, the elderly doorman. Yet, as she waits before the elevator, that smile vanishes into thin air.

“Mr. King.” Sam steps away from his desk. Just as my eyes catch the BROKEN sign affixed to the door, his words confirm my suspicions. “The lift broke this morning.” His gaze shifts toward the three oversized neon suitcases by my side, which are heavier than they look.

“Is someone on their way to repair it, Sam?” I let go of the bag handles as an ominous feeling finds a place in my chest.

The old man hesitates, and his reluctance only adds to my irritation. “I’m afraid not, Mr. King. There’s a fall festival happening in the town center. All the handymen are either occupied or on standby. The earliest I can have someone fix the elevator is in the evening,” he replies in a rush. I’m sure the vein pulsating on my forehead isn’t making this any easier on him. “I can assist you with your luggage, though.”

Merida steps in. “Thank you so much, Sam. We’ll manage.”

As if I’d actually make an old man haul her massive suitcases.

Unlike the drive, where her lips were glued together in a frown, she can’t stop smiling at the doorman.

“Are you sure?” Sam’s gaze flings to me, and before I can reply, the phone on his desk starts ringing.

I give him a small nod, and he leaves with a grateful smile.

While I’m thinking of something like calling one of the local boys from my street team, Merida grabs the lightest of the three bags and strides across the floor toward the stairs. I take two large steps and find her lifting the bag up the staircase. There’s no way these plastic wheels will survive the torture they’d bear at each step.

“Is this how you plan to ‘manage’?”

“It’s heavy,” she grunts without lifting her head. As she maneuvers the bag with one hand while holding the kitten crate with the other, a sudden gust of wind sweeps the window open. The skirt of her dress billows like a paper lantern, and the silk scarf hanging from her shoulders flows right to my face.

Through the thin fabric, I notice her wide eyes and her hand resting in the middle of her neck, where the scarf was a few moments ago. My gaze sweeps further below, to her plunging neckline, as she’s bent forward hauling her bag.

I stare at her for another second before realization sets in. What the fuck am I doing?

Did I just ogle Merida’s chest?

She’s a kid, goddammit.

Okay, not exactly a kid, but I’ve known her since she was five.

What the heck is wrong with me? It’s been too long since I’ve been with anyone. There’s no other reason why I’d look at Merida any other way.

My fingers clench around the delicate fabric as I yank it away from my face, and the frustration bubbling inside me, initially directed at myself, somehow finds its way to the last person who deserves anyone’s anger.

“Stand up.” My jaw tightens to the point of pain, as if she’s to blame for my inappropriate thoughts. When she doesn’t respond, my teeth grind together. “Get the fuck up, Merida. Now.”

However, her gaze narrows, serving as another reminder that she’s no longer the girl who once regarded me as if I held the stars in my hands, obeying my every word without hesitation. Merida sets the crate onto the ground and releases her grip on the bag handle, proceeding to descend the steps. As she reaches a point just one step above me, positioning herself at eye level, she locks her gaze with mine. Her typically powder-blue eyes have taken on a deeper hue, reminding me of the waters of Lake Cherry.

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