Page 36 of Friends Don't Kiss

The deep rumble of the engine takes over, my thoughts drifting to Kiara.

“You never really told me about your father.” I want to get to the bottom of her rift with her family. I feel there’s an important piece I’m missing here, and since I’m set on making her mine in all the right ways, I need to know which wounds she needs mending.

Though we’re not touching, I feel her stiffen at my question. “There’s not much to say,” she mumbles, her gaze still on her book.

“My dad was an alcoholic,” I volunteer, to get her started. “I told you, right?” I did tell her—several times.

“Mine was a cheat,” she answers. Then, with a sigh, she shuts her book, picks up the empty mug on her side of the middle console, then tips it over to drink the last drops. If she were a smoker, this would be the part where she’d light a cigarette.

“I didn’t mean to bring up the past.” I glance at her. “I mean Imeantto, but…”

Her gaze is locked ahead of her, but it’s clear her mind isn’t on the white expanse glimmering under the cold sun. It’s lost somewhere in the past, or maybe way inside of her.

Her fists are bunched on her lap, and I bet if I looked right now I’d see her nails digging in her palms.

I wish I could hug her. “We’re not responsible for our parents’ mistakes.”

She lets out a chuckle, then a sigh.

“What?” That was boilerplate comfort speak. Not sure who could argue with that. Well, except Kiara. I glance at her, expecting to see sarcasm painted all over her features. Instead, there’s a tear spilling over her eye. Easing my foot off the gas, I reach to wipe it with my thumb, and her hand bumps into mine. I fold my fingers around hers and give her a squeeze.

I expect her to shy away. Instead, she leans onto my shoulder. “You’re a good friend,” she whispers, so softly I barely hear her over the roar of the engine. “The best. That’s why I can’t ever lose you.”

“You’re not gonna lose me,” I say, wrapping my arm around her to give her a side hug. I want to be the shoulder she can lean on, metaphorically or for real.

After about thirty too-short seconds of her scooped under my arm, she sits up and takes a short breath. “My father had a double life. Another family. When…” She hesitates, then continues, “when it came out, he disappeared from our lives.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Sweets,” is all I can think to say. I always knew something wasn’t right where her family was concerned; I didn’t realize how bad it was.

‘Yeah,” she says, and fiddles with the playlist on her phone. “Now you know.”

There’s still a lot I don’t know. Like, why she isn’t speaking to her mom and sister? Why do they treat her so poorly?

“Life is shitty,” she mumbles. “You have to fight for every little thing you want and you never, ever, get anywhere close to what you dreamed of having.”

I’m about to ask her what her dreams are now, but I think better of it. She’s not in a good place. I just need to get her through this weekend with minimal damage. Then we can talk about her dreams.

I’d like to help her make them come true.

For the rest of the trip, her playlists fill my truck. And it turns out, all the hype about Taylor Swift is totally deserved. Add to that Kiara’s off-key singing, and her sweet scent, and her bouncing up and down in her seat to the beat of the music when she forgets to check herself.

Driving to Maine isn’t the drag I thought it would be.

Quite the opposite.

“All good?” Kiara asks me once we’re in the room, as she checks her reflection in the mirror. It gives me a little pang of want, the way she asks. Like she’s insecure. I’ve rarely seen this side of her. I suppose being surrounded by her family brings it out. I do like that she’s leaning on me for comfort, even if it’s only metaphorical.

“Yup,” I answer between clenched jaws.

The way she looks in that dress? Holy fuck. I thought I remembered from that make-shift prom they threw us way back then. I was wrong. My memory obliterated all the good parts, leaving only a general impression that was hot enough to fuel many late-night fantasies.

My fingers are still tingling from helping her zip it up a few minutes ago, my dick still straining hard against my own pant zipper. I’m going to have to spend the evening with her by my side.

And the night.

I’m so fucked.

Now she’s sifting through her carry-on, then looking around the room. “Shit,” she says under her breath.

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