Page 57 of Unforgettable

As he pulled the shirt over his head, further messing up his already disheveled hair, I felt myself relax slightly.

“So, what are we going to do?” he asked.

I scoffed and took up the chair he’d vacated, easing myself back until it was as far as it could go. I’d sprung for the ergonomic chair, which my dad had told me was an extra expense I shouldn’t have incurred. Little did he know I spent more time in that chair than I did in my own bed sometimes.

“We?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, looking down at me over his nose. “Yes, we, fucker.We,” he said, motioning between the two of us. “Decided and agreed on this plan to begin with. We’re in this together and need to figure out a way to fix this shit. I’m not okay with Amanda not talking to me. Are you?”

“Seriously? How can you even ask me that? Of course I’m not okay with this, but I’m not going to force her to talk to me.”

Josh waved me off. “Maybe I just want this more than you do then. I’m not going to force her to talk to me, but I’m also not going to just roll over. There’s a difference between showing her how much she’s missing and forcing her to respond.”

“You’re fucking delusional,” I said, barely restrained anger dripping from each word.

“If that’s true, then prove it. Help me figure this out instead of sitting on your ass.” With that comment, he’d pushed me too far. I pushed from my chair, slamming it into the desk behind me as I shot to my feet and got into Josh’s face. My palms met resistance against his chest, but he staggered slightly, stepping back closer to the door. Only inches apart, the only thing I could see was the smug grin pulling at his lips.

The grin told me all I needed to know: he didn’t believe any of the bullshit he was spewing. He was merely saying it to coax a reaction from me. And of course it worked—unsurprisingly, my best friend knew me better than nearly anyone.

“You annoy the shit out of me.”

The grin he was trying to suppress turned into a full-on, Josh-like smile. “No, actually, I don’t think I do.”

SEVENTEEN

Josh

Reed didn’t takea step back and continued to watch my mouth long after I’d spoken. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I wetted my lips. An odd look passed over his face—one I couldn’t exactly pinpoint—twisting his eyebrows and setting his mouth in a deathly straight line. The only word I could think of that might accurately describe it was surprise, but that didn’t even make sense.

What the hell did he have to be surprised about? The fact that I knew challenging him would make it impossible for him to say no to me? That shouldn’t have been a surprise since it was my usual MO when he was being more difficult than usual.

I cleared my throat and stepped forward. Thankfully, he took a half step back and lifted his eyes to mine. We were still close enough that there was no missing the dark-whiskey color of his eyes. The same whiskey he often ordered at Murphy’s.

I opened my mouth to speak but felt the need to clear my throat again. I did it again—a little louder—and finally found my voice. “Tomorrow’s her first day back at school, and I have something planned for tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Done with the conversation and having said all I needed to say, I headed for the door.

“Wait,” Reed spoke up from behind me. His hand wrapped around my upper arm, keeping me from moving any farther to the exit. When I looked back, waiting for him to start talking, he wasn’t looking at my face but at his hand and where he was touching me.

There was a wrinkle between his brows again like there was a minute before. His hand felt heavier against my skin the longer he left it there.

He cleared his throat and pulled his eyes from where he touched me. “Why do you get to see her first? Who decided that?”

I tried not to smile at his usual competitive nature and the need to make all equal.

The entire time we’d known each other, it always had to be fair. If we were both interested in the same girl, we’d play Rock, Paper, Scissors to figure out who would approach her. If we wanted to watch different movies, we’d flip a coin. When we’d go out, we’d have to find someone to pick a number between one and twenty. Whoever’s number they were closer to was where we’d go.

“Because you got the first date, and actually, I decided,” I said as I crossed the space to the door. His hands slipped from my arm as I stepped around the box of shirts he’d pulled mine from and another box of fancy water bottles.

“See you at home,” I called before the door clicked shut behind me.

Six in the morning was exceptionally early when I usually finally fell into bed at around two or three a.m.

But I couldn’t let my exhaustion affect my plan, so I carefully grabbed the cup of hot coffee—a large, caramel latte with cinnamon—and the salad I knew she enjoyed from a local grocery store from the passenger seat.

I’d arrived early enough that I knew she’d still be at her apartment, likely frantic to gather her things in enough time to still get her coffee and be at school earlier than necessary.

I hurried up the stairs and paused for a moment at her front door, saying a silent prayer that she wouldn’t be pissed off that I’d shown up unannounced before knocking.

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