Page 4 of I Could Be Yours

She ends the call without another word. Less than a minute later, Essie passes my car. I honk and she startles, dropping her purse. Shit scatters on the sidewalk. I fight with my body to stay in my seat and let her handle it. But all I’ve done so far is be a dick to her. It’s not her fault I’m guilt riddled, or that I’m not over the kiss we shared all those years ago, or how apathetic she seems in my presence. She acts like it never happened, like it was insignificant, and I’m over here obsessing and hating myself for not being able to be a normal person around her.

I cut the engine and hop out of the driver’s seat. Essie scrambles to reclaim the items all over the ground while I round the hood.

I nab one of her lip balms before it can roll into a sewer grate. She frantically jams things back in her purse as I crouch protectively in front of her to help.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “I know we’re already late.”

I barely resist the urge to pocket one of her lip balms. Instead, I scoop up a handful of pens—she has many—and hand them over. A man on his phone kicks a tube of lip gloss down the sidewalk. It ricochets off a woman’s foot and ping-pongs into traffic, then promptly gets run over by a taxi.

We stand at the same time, and I move toward my car, opening the passenger door for her.

“Thanks.” She slides in, face red, eyes anywhere but on me.

I round the hood and steel myself. Back in high school she wore some kind of perfume or lotion that I attributed only to her. Something sweet and lightly fruity. That hasn’t changed, and it never fails to trigger the memory of that kiss.

So many emotions are tangled up in that memory. Ones I don’t like to deal with. My shame over the way I handled things still makes me uncomfortable and embarrassed. But we were kids, just out of high school. And I was all kinds of fucked up. I still am. Probably more than I was then. Definitely more fucked up. I saved us both a world of heartache by doing what I did, even if it was shitty.

I take my spot behind the wheel and grit my teeth as I close the door, trapping us in the confined space together.

“I’m sorry about my nipples,” she blurts.

I fasten my seat belt aggressively as heat rushes through me and the hard-on that had disappeared returns. “Never mention them again.”

“Never again,” she whispers.

Why can’t I stop being a jerk? I should do better. Benicer. It’s not her fault that everything about my brother’s wedding is a fucking trigger. I should be over the breakup with Lisa. It’s been more than a year since she left me for someone more emotionally available—beforeshe actually broke things off. We obviously weren’t right for each other, yet I still have a lot of inconvenient feelings tied to the breakup. But just because I can’t make someone happy doesn’t mean all relationships are doomed to the same fate as mine. Apart from any of that, though, Essie’s positive-Petunia attitude about love irks me endlessly. Maybe I’m envious. Maybe I’m just a jaded asshole. Who fucking knows?

“How’s your day going?” Essie asks.

“I’ve had better.” Still scoring zero on the being-nicer front.

“Would you like to talk about it? It’s not good to hold your feelings inside, Nathan,” she says sweetly.

Ihatewhen she says my full name, because Ilovewhen she says my full name. “Anything that comes out of my mouth will likely hurt your precious feelings, so it’s better if I keep those thoughts in my head.” At least I’m being honest. I don’t need more things to feel bad about.

“My feelings aren’t precious.”

I side-eye her.

“Seriously, say whatever you need to say, Nate. I’m sure you’d love to get whatever is eating at you off your chest.”

“You. You’re eating at me,” I blurt before I can find the self-restraint necessary to bite my idiot tongue. “You and your sunshine-and-roses perspective on everything. Love sucks. All it does is make you vulnerable, and then people leave.” Without a word. Without an explanation. Or they find someone better.

Essie shifts in her seat. I almost expect her to call me out, to force me to deal with the assholery I’ve carried from the past into the present. But she doesn’t. Likely because she’s not thinking aboutus, about me being a hypocrite. She’s thinking about her best friend and my brother. “You don’t think Tristan and Rix will last?”

The steering wheel groans under my hands. I need to calm the hell down. My blood pressure is rising along with my fucking guilt. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

She doesn’t let it go. “Tristan has grown so much. He worships the ground Rix walks on. And Rix loves him just as much.”

But she could still leave him. I keep that thought to myself. I adore Rix. She’s always been part of our lives in one facet or another. When we were kids, she and I would often get tossed together because we’re the same age. I thought of her like a sister. And soon that’s the title and role she’ll have in my life. I want that. But I’m nervous to have it and lose it.

My brother is my best friend. But he’s a surly fucker. And while Essie is right, and he’s made huge strides since he and Rix became a thing, I still worry about the future. For him. But alsofor me. What if it all falls apart? People leave.Womenleave. My mother left. Lisa left. I have no faith in love. No faith that it can endure, because in my experience, it doesn’t.

And then there’s Essie, who falls in love over and over. It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s been broken up with countless times; she still somehow believes that love conquers all. I can’t decide if I should envy her or pity her.

The rest of the ride to the restaurant is silent, and Essie practically launches herself out of the car as soon as I put it in park. She’s already at the door when I’m still crossing the lot. By the time I make it inside, she’s at the host stand, flashing her megawatt smile, making him splutter and stumble over his words.

He doesn’t tear his eyes away from Essie as he mumbles, “I’ll be right with you,” vaguely in my direction.

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