Page 45 of Beachside Kisses With My Best Friend

“Mare, I’m going to tell you something I wish I’d thought more about eight years ago.”

I can only assume she means when she was pregnant with Scarlett. “Okay.”

“Back then, I made a decision based on what-ifs. I can’t go back and change that decision now. But sometimes…I wonder if I should have done more to be sure.” She glances out at the yard, at her daughter, who is crowing at the top of the play structure, arms raised in the air, triumphant and full of joy. “To be honest, it haunts me sometimes. And I’d hate for the same thing to happen to you.”

“I…I don’t know how to be sure.” Because I thought I was sure with Donny, and look how that turned out.

“Okay, maybe notsure. But open yourself to the possibility that you could be wrong. And ask yourself how that might change things between you and Jordan…and whether you want it to.”

* * *

April’s words haven’t left me all week.

Through a meeting at the bank. Amid flour sifting and decorating a cake to look like a Minion. When playing with Ryder in the evenings.

And in the middle of the night, when I wake suddenly from a nightmare and glance over at the world’s most uncomfortable wooden chair, where Jordan has taken to sleeping.

It’s got to be even worse than the couch. But I haven’t said a word about it, and neither has he. I’m not sure of his reasons for the silence, but as for me?

I’m scared of what will happen if I invite him in.

Not just into the bed—but into my life as more than a friend.

And yet, April’s words swirl…“I wonder if I should have done more to be sure.”

Now it’s Friday night and I’ve just finished tucking sweet Ryder into bed, reading to him from his Avengers storybook for what feels like the hundredth time—and I’m sick of hearing myself think. More than that, I miss my best friend. Because I can feel it. We’re both in our heads about all of this. The last week, since that kiss, has felt like walking a tightrope, neither of us willing to advance or meet in the middle. We’ve just stood on either end, staring at each other, constantly trying to stay balanced and not fall splat to the ground.

Snicking Ryder’s door closed behind me, I inhale deeply, willing myself the courage to walk back into the living room to face Jordan instead of retreating to the bedroom and tucking in for another night of loneliness. Finally, I wipe my sweaty palms on my black lounge pants and pad in my slouchy socks toward the kitchen.

Jordan’s back is to me as he cleans up from dinner, a black dish towel slung over one shoulder, hat sitting backwards on his head. He’s got some Taylor Swift playing from his phone and is singing along softly, shaking it off lyrically and with his hips.

My chest loosens. Because this is my best friend as I’m used to seeing him.

I giggle, and he turns, eyebrows lifted as he continues to sing. He grabs the towel from his shoulder and dries off his soapy hands, flinging it dramatically back to the counter as he busts out moves Justin Timberlake would be proud of. Then, at a pause in the music, he tilts his head. “Dance battle?”

“Dance battle,” I confirm.

Grinning, he flicks up the volume on his phone—Ryder’s white noise machine will ensure our shenanigans don’t wake him—and he flourishes his hands at me.

Guess I’m going first.

And look, I’m no Taylor or Shakira or Beyoncé. And I can’t sing worth a flip. But I do at least have the gift of rhythm. I’m fairly certain I look ridiculous as I shake my hips and shimmy around Jordan, whose eyes laugh at me while he cups his mouth and whoops.

I take a break, arms folded back as I lean against the counter. “Top that.”

He taps the tip of my nose. “Easy.” Then he walks it back like he’s Michael Jackson and adds a little robot action in there.

I pretend to be chill, but on the inside, I’m lighting up like the Christmas tree that’sstillin the living room. There’s nothing like this feeling, laughing and being ridiculous with someone who just gets you.

When he’s done, swiping off his shoulders like his moves were “no big deal,” I jump back in, and so does he, until we’re three songs deep and both belly laughing at how we’ve devolved into utterly ridiculous moves like the shopping cart, the sprinkler, and my personal fave, the chicken dance.

Finally, Jordan flips off the music and removes his hat, fanning himself. “Okay, I needed that.”

“Me too.” I pull my hair from my bun. It’s sweaty at the base of my neck, and I comb it out with my fingers before tossing it back up.

I feel his eyes on me the whole time, burning in their intensity.

And suddenly, the levity’s gone.

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