Page 33 of Last First Kiss
I shake my head and pull back. “I need you, too, Ale,” I whisper. “But ... you want me around as your best friend. Not as someone you could fall in love with. Plus, I’ve never had a real relationship. It feels like too big a gamble to try to have one with you. I don’t want to lose you.”
The words spill out before I can stop them. I’ve laid my feelings out in the open without actually telling her. I should feel uneasy, raw, and afraid of what she’ll do with all of it. But I don’t. Not here. Not with her. In this bubble Alejandra and I create when it’s just the two of us, I only feel safe.
“You could never lose me, Clara.” Alejandra wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me close. I sink into her, breathing her in, my heart aching with how much I want her and how safe it is in her arms.
When we let go, she doesn’t say a word. Just gives me the tiniest smile I’ve ever seen cross her lips, her gaze distant, clearly lost in thought. I desperately want to know what is going on in her head, but I don’t ask, and the silence stretches between us.
After a few minutes, I can’t take it anymore. Normally, I don’t mind the quiet moments between us, but this one is different; it’s tense.
“I’m going to get ready for bed,” I say, breaking the quiet. I squeeze her hand one last time before letting go.
She nods wordlessly.
I stand, and as I do, Alejandra grabs hold of my wrist. I look down at her, and she’s staring up at me—brows slightly drawn, lips parted like she’s on the edge of saying something. I can see she wants to, but she keeps stopping herself.
So I wait. After a few long seconds, she slowly lets go, like it physically hurts her to do it. Her hand drops back toher lap, and whatever she was about to say disappears with it.
I turn and head to the bathroom. Once inside, I close the door behind me and press my back against it, letting out a shaky breath, trying to wrap my head around everything.
I brush my teeth, slip into pj’s, and get under the covers, hoping the scent of Alejandra’s shampoo on my pillow will ease the ache in my chest. But tonight, it doesn’t bring the usual calm; it only makes my eyes sting.
The bed dips, followed by Alejandra’s arms wrapping around me tightly.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you, too, bunny,” I reply, trying to keep my tears from spilling over.
Sleep doesn’t come easily tonight; my mind is too aware of Alejandra beside me. Every shift of her body, every breath, keeps me awake, my body hyper-focused on the warmth radiating from her. It’s ridiculous, I know, because we share a bed at least four times a week, tangled in sheets and each other. But tonight, I’m lying on my back instead of spooning her, and my breath hitches anytime I think Alejandra might roll over and throw her arm or leg over me.
Everything about tonight feels different. The air is charged, and my mind won’t calm. All night, “You want me around as your best friend, not as someone you could fall in love with,” echoes in my mind. I hear myself say it over and over. Then, silence. Alejandra’s silence, because she didn’t correct me. Her silence is the answer I’d been dreading, and her silence plays in my head like a nightmare on repeat.
I’ve had that conversation with myself a thousand times since.
Replaying it, rewriting it, imagining all the things Icould’ve said—should’ve said. I should’ve corrected her. I should’ve told her how I feel—how I’ve felt for years. It was the perfect moment, the door wide open ... and I couldn’t step through.
I never can, and I hate myself for it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALEJANDRA
Ishould’ve told Clara last night that I don’t even know if what I’m feeling is exclusively friendly. But I didn’t. My brain had laid everything out perfectly, but my mouth had been uncooperative. Then I’d started second-guessing myself. Was this really the best time? How do I even begin when I can’t figure out what’s going on with me or when I’m leaving?
I scroll through my emails, the list of upcoming interviews glaring back at me—each one a reminder that I’m running out of time, fast, and I can’t keep avoiding this conversation with her.
“Morning,” Lala says as I walk into the kitchen, where she was talking with Clara, but I barely register the greeting.
My focus is entirely on Clara. She’s leaning against the kitchen island, her legs crossed at the ankle, one hip sticking out, and her arms—God, her arms, have they always been this defined?—are folded over her chest. The slight arch in her back shows off the lean muscle along her waist. Her topclings lightly to her body, rising slightly with each breath, and it takes everything not to lick my lips.
My eyes trace over her form, and I can’t seem to look away. It’s subtle—I hope—a quick flick of my gaze down her frame, but it’s enough to make my stomach tighten and my fingers itch to touch her. To trace them over the hem of her shirt until I find bare skin.
I don’t know what’s going on with me this morning. She’s always been there. I’ve always known she’s ridiculously attractive, but right now, I’m hyper-aware of it. It’s like everything I’ve always known to be true—her charm, how effortlessly beautiful she is—suddenly feels amplified. But it’s more than that. More ... something. I don’t even know what exactly, but it’s something I can no longer ignore.
I kiss the top of Lala’s head and then Clara’s cheek, but as she leans into it, it feels different ... warmer, and her hands around my waist are positively electric—the heat of her touch seeps through the fabric of my shirt, and I gasp. Her touch has always been warm and comforting, but this is different. It crackles through me like a spark, and I can’t catch my breath.
Clara turns slowly, her gaze dropping to my parted lips, lingering there before the corner of her mouth quirks up. Then she turns back toward Lala and finishes what she was saying, her hand still on my waist, her thumb rubbing slow circles against my skin.
What is happening? My best friend’s touch should not affect me like this—not when it’s one I’ve known my whole life. I try not to focus on it, but it’s proving harder than expected.
