Page 8 of Back to Me

I look up to see her nodding, knowing full well what happened. She’s been my best friend long enough to know my father and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. But no matter how angry I get or who is more at fault, she always supports me.

She’s on the other side of the room from me, and the distance between us feels so much farther than just a few feet. The corner of her mouth draws up into a small smile.

“I guess the conversation didn’t end well?” She glances at my broken phone before focusing her eyes back on me.

I laugh. “Nope.”

She tucks her long blonde hair behind her ear and licks her lips, closing her eyes for one fleeting moment.

Having been so distracted by my anger between her missing my painting and the conversation with my dad, I hadn’t noticed how beautiful she looks tonight. Of course, I always think she’s beautiful—I’m in love with her. But tonight, she really does. Her small red dress hugs her every curve as the hem of the satin fabric dances along the top of her thighs. Her dress dips down between her chest, showing just enough of her breasts, I bite the corner of my cheek, refusing to show just how much she’s affecting me. Her green eyes shine against the shadows of her face, and I quickly turn around, distracting myself before she becomes aware of the growing pressure in my jeans. When the sensation subsides, I pretend to pick up a bottle of paint and walk over to the table next to her.

“I need to learn how to not let him get to me so much.”

“It’s understandable. He’s your dad. You get angry because you love him.”

“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t.” I stare into her eyes. They’re a mixture of every possible shade of green, and as I find myself getting lost in them, I get lost in my own thoughts, confused about whether the statement was meant for my father or for her.

We stand there awkwardly for what feels like hours. Clearing my throat, I say, “Well, I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“Trust me, you didn’t ruin my night.” Walking back toward the spiral staircase leading to the main floor of our apartment, she reaches the top of the stairs, and before she takes a step, she glances over her shoulder, “If anything, you made my night better.”

When she disappears, and I hear the door to her room click shut, I turn around and release a heavy breath. I’m in trouble.

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