Page 23 of Cross My Heart

Today is about her, and how much fun we’re going to have.

“Noah,” I whisper as he walks toward me with purpose, sky-blue eyes wide and dilated. He doesn’t stop until our shoes are touching, toe to toe. I look around, trying to see where the hell Scarlett is, but she’s inside the bar already, waiting for us. He snakes a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, our foreheads pressing together, our lips brushing lightly for just a split second. I close my eyes to the fleeting sensation of our shared breaths—hoping, praying, that he will close the millimeters of distance between us and put us out of our misery. But instead, he pulls away.

Not me.

Not Tyler, Scarlett’s fucking boyfriend.

Him.

And it breaks my heart just a little more. The fissures of the cracks in my armor continue to splinter, and I hold my breath at the devastation I know Noah Milner will be leaving in his wake when this is all said and done.

“Noah,” I repeat, and we make eye contact. “I?—”

I missed you.

I want you.

Come back to me.

But he seems to read between the lines and shakes his head, rendering me immobile. He turns his back on me with finality. A period at the end of a sentence. A door slamming shut. And it hurts.

So. Fucking. Bad.

He keeps walking away from me, then enters the bar, leaving me outside. My hands find my knees immediately, and I gasp with the need to draw in breath as I choke on the very air that was suddenly hard to breathe due to his proximity. I contemplate all the ways I could get home without drawing too much attention to the situation but come up empty. Scarlett isn’t stupid. She will know something is terribly wrong if I back out now. It’s her fucking birthday, for fuck’s sake.

So even as tears sting the back of my eyes, I straighten my spine and clear my throat. I watch the walls go up inside my mind, locking out all the bullshit. Today is about Scarlett. Not me.

Not. Me.

Entering the bar, I wrinkle my nose at the smell of beer, liquor, and sweat. The lights are dim except for the ones above the bar top and as I gaze up, my eyes connect with Scarlett’s.

She grins, dipping down as she twerks on top of the bar. She’s barefoot, looking playful and happy, and everyone is eating it right up. The patrons are cheering her on, hell, even Noah is. He looks content, and yet I know something is missing. I know he’s hiding it from me—and doing it so well, I’m wondering if I’m imagining it in the first place. Then again, I know nothing between us has changed in the last six months. Not really.

Scarlett extends her hand toward me, reaching for me, and when we connect, I pull her off the bar. She leans into me, wrapping her legs around my waist on the way down. Her face buried in the crook of my neck feeling too intimate all of a sudden. My chest heaves with the force of my quickening breaths, and my eyes connect with Noah’s.

Pain.

There and gone.

But I know I didn’t imagine it when he turns away from me quickly as if I’ve burned him.

It feels like a wave of relief crashes over me when Scarlett disentangles herself from my body, and I look away from her to hopefully not show how much I want this night to be over. If she notices, she pretends not to. Instead, she wraps a hand around mine and tugs me toward a high table where a pitcher of beer and a dozen shots or more litter the table. I guess it helps to have friends who work here and are willing to make this birthday her best one.

I should be trying to do the same, I know that. And I’m a horrible person because I know what I should do and yet can’t bring myself to do it. Because when I close my eyes, it’s not hazel orbs that assault my dreams. No, it’s sky-blue ones. And I know how wrong that is. How fucked up it makes me. And I hate myself a little more every day over it.

After a while, I lose count.

The hours blend together, and the drinks rack up until I can’t remember how many I’ve had anymore. I’m drinking more than she is, and from time to time, she shoots me a quizzical look. Then one of concern. And lastly, one of pity. Now, I don’t know why she’d pity me, but of course, it raises all my metaphorical red flags. All the bells are ringing—blaring—in my ears at the last look.

Does she feel bad for me because I’m going to be hurting tomorrow? Or is there more? Does she feel bad for me that Noah is practically casting me aside? Rejecting me? Acting as if I don’t even exist? And does she know? Does sheknowabout us?

Does it even matter?

Noah is at my side immediately, steering me toward the nearest restroom, and once we make it in, he shuts the door and locks it behind us. My knees hit the tiled floor, and I land ungracefully in front of the toilet.

Silence.

“Are you going to ignore me all night?” I whisper, feeling vulnerable. My stomach churns, and I inhale deeply, trying to keep my shit together.

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