Page 7 of Lost the Handle

Damn it, why can’t I let go of these feelings? Nothing I do can stop how I feel. I’ve slept around, I’ve been in relationships, but every time I tried to fall in love with someone else, I couldn’t. I never let anyone get close to me. I never let anyone know me. I’ve worked and furthered my education. That’s it.

Now, I’m getting married.

And the girl I love is at my front door.

The knock at the door sounds again, and I close my eyes, praying that God has mercy on me. Why did I cross that line? Why did I let her kiss me all those years ago? We had a great friendship, and I let my desire for her take over. I should have said no, but it’s hard to say no to someone whom I just want to see smiling at every turn. Fuck me, why can’t I fucking shake this unyielding love for her? I can never be her friend again because I want everything. I want her heart, her soul, her body, and most of all, I want her love.

I want to hear her say she loves me.

No. I don’t.

If she says it, I’ll leave Ava in a heartbeat, and that can’t happen.

My heart is like a kick drum in my chest as I close the distance to the door. I throw the latch to the lock open, and instantly, my eyes meet a pair of gray ones. Emery leans on a suitcase, her lips curved up in a sneaky little grin while her curly hair is falling from her messy bun. Her pupils dilate as they meet mine, her lips parting ever so slightly. Neither of us says a word. My heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest, and all I can think is how much I’ve missed her.

I’ve missed her thick lips.

Her round face.

Her little nose.

Her rosy cheeks.

But most of all, those eyes.

Expressive eyes that say everything her lips don’t dare utter.

Her. I’ve missed Emery Brooks.

I just saw her a couple months ago for my grandparents’ funerals, but it wasn’t enough. Especially when we got into a little fight, and she didn’t speak to me the rest of the trip. She never left my side, but no words were spoken. She held my hand, she was supportive, and that’s all. It was everything I needed at that moment, though. I wish I had reached out after to check in and to thank her for what she did for me. Instead, I allowed her “We’ll see” when I told her I was getting married to haunt me.

And now, she’s on my doorstep.

With a suitcase.

Fuck me.

I swallow past the lump in my throat as I gaze down at her. She has on a ratty, old-school Assassins shirt that I know has her daddy’s number on the back. She paired it with cutoff denim shorts and some purple Chuck Taylors. She is looking every bit the hockey princess.

One I want to be my queen.

You’re getting married, dumbass.I scold myself.

Her lips curve more as she says, “Hey, Quinny.”

Just my name on her lips brings such a wave of emotion.

And you’re not getting married to her, I remind myself.

Apparently, it’s a needed reminder.

God, I’m so fucked.

“E, what are you doing here?”

She just beams, moving past me with her suitcase in tow. “Did you know my parents sold our house?” I shut the door, not wanting to look dumb as I turn to her. “They’re staying with your parents while they build another.”

I nod cautiously. “I heard.”

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