Page 17 of The One I Love
“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”
“No.”
She tilts her head. “Thou doth protest too much.”
“I’m not protesting. I’m…I’m just…”
Kendra leans in a little closer. “Say it. Say you miss it. Say you want it. Say all the reasons you just gave me were yourbrain trying to talk you out of this. Say that your friend is sexy as fuck, and he kissed you, and you can’t get it out of your head. Say you want him to use that mouth in other ways. Say you want Shane to end the drought. You know you want to.”
“I…” I trail off, because I think she’s right. “I might.”
She throws her head back in defeat. “So close!”
“Did you think I was going to say yes immediately? Without overthinking it six ways from Sunday?”
“A girl can dream.”
I’m not going to admit out loud that yes, now that I know what it’s like to kiss Shane, I’m curious what more would be like. But I have to be practical. I have to think about things and how they will affect those I love. And myself. Shane and I need to talk and figure things out and be adults. Because all of those reasons I listed weren’t excuses. They are realities.
“Amelia?” Kendra asks. “Can I ask you to also keep one thing in mind when you’re figuring this out?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t let your brain talk you out of something your heart wants. Because I know you, Amelia Evans. You will look out for everyone else’s wellbeing before your own. And this time, I’m going to need you to say fuck their feelings so you can fuck Shane.”
I can’t help but laugh at my ridiculous friend. “Just when I thought you were going to be serious and sentimental…”
“You should know better, wifey.”
Chapter 5
Shane
The one thingabout never wanting a serious relationship, or having more than one night with a woman, is I never had to worry about when to call. Or if I should message them. You don’t call someone you meet at a bar or only see once every few months. At the most, it’s a quick text. A “what are you doing?” Or a “free tonight?”
Yes, I know that’s fuckboy language. Which I didn’t know was a thing until I heard two rookies talking about it at the station a few months ago, but it works for me. I’ve never seriously dated. No one besides Amelia interested me in high school, so I didn’t see the point in dating. In my twenties, I was in the Army, so women consisted of the tag chasers hanging out at the bars around base for a quick night of fun. When I moved back to Rolling Hills after my tours, there was only one woman I wanted—and she was married. After her divorce, I could have said something, but I didn’t want to rock the boat. I never felt like it was the right time to tell her how I felt. So lowkey flings areit. Or,wereit.
I don’t know what to do, or how to act, now that Amelia and I are in this weird place. We usually talk every day. A quick text, or me popping over to her house, is a normal thing for us. So the fact it’s been five days since I’ve last seen or spoke to her is fucking killing me.
I could text her. Just see how she’s doing. But I don’t want her to think that I’m using the text as a ploy to bring up the elephant in the room. I also don’t want to spook her. I know she needs time to process. That’s just how she is.
On the other hand, I feel like the longer I wait, the more the conversation won’t happen. And if it does, she’ll list all the reasons why kissing was the worst idea possible. Or worse: pretend that it never happened.
“Fuck!” I toss my phone across the room after checking it for the thirtieth time since I got home from work an hour ago. Luckily, it lands softly on my couch. Not so lucky is that as soon as I stand up to go over and get it—just in case I get a message—I hear a knock on the door.
“Shane! Open up! My hands are full, and I can see you in the living room.”
I let out a groan as I trudge to the door to let my mom in the house. If her hands are full, that means she brought over food. I might not be in the mood for company, but I don’t feel like cooking either. A man can only order takeout so many nights a week. This is Rolling Hills, after all; we have four options for takeout, and none of them make Barb Cunningham’s chicken and dumplings.
When I open the door, I have to hold back a laugh. My mom is wearing a gold sequined jacket, her bingo visor, and holding two casserole dishes.
“I hope you didn’t dress up just to come see me.”
“You think I’d waste my lucky jacket on you? Now move so I can put these in your kitchen.”
I do as she says, stepping out of the way as my mom barges past me. “What brings you over, Ma? On bingo night, no less.”
“Do you know how many days it’s been since I talked to you?”
