Page 63 of Jump

But I open the door to let the heat escape and allow our meal to rest, then I pour a glass of wine and stand at the counter while I take a sip.

Liquid touches the back of my throat and trickles all the way to the bottom of my stomach.

Fruity flavors bubble against my taste buds, and courage warms in my belly.

I hear the interruption in the spray of the shower as Matt moves in the water, and though I try my damnedest to not be tempted by the mental images the sound elicits, I find myself drinking a little more and tapping my toe against the floor.

Please stay away, I beg myself. Please, please, please don’t make this worse than it already is.

But then I realize I’m having a conversation with myself. Like a fricken crazy person.

Frustrated—and worse, pent-up—I set my glass down with a snap and, instead of following my questionable impulses, turn to rescue my phone from the corner of the counter where we keep our toaster and coffee machine. Swiping to unlock the screen, and ignoring my myriad of missed calls—ha! There are none—I scroll to my best friend’s name and know I’ll regret making this call.

But she’s my hero when I need one. My conscience, too, when I need that. She’s my ride or die—so when I’m standing in my kitchen, drinking alone and having a conversation with myself, she’s who I’m going to reach out to.

Hitting dial and pressing the phone to my ear, I circle to the stools and plop down on one the same moment the call connects.

“This had better be important,” Hannah pants breathlessly. “You’re my girl, Viv, but if you just cost me an orgasm, I’m gonna lose my shit.”

“Jesus.” I set my elbow on the counter, and drop my face in my upturned hand. “You could’ve sent me to voicemail, ya know? Let the poor man finish.”

“He’s fine. It’s me you have to worry about.” But then she turns serious. “You okay?”

“Uh… well.” I wrinkle my nose and study the single bubble that floats at the top of my wine. “Not really.”

“Am I rushing over to cut some bitch for making you sad, or are we getting drunk and watching the extended version of Titanic?”

I cough out a laugh that edges on hysteria. “I want to talk to you about something kinda big,” I hedge. “But I need you to promise not to make it into a huge deal.”

Silence hangs for a beat.

“It is a huge deal,” I groan. “Massive. But I’m not ready to deal with that yet. So promise me you’ll be chill and just focus on my direct questions.”

“I promise. I’ll be back,” she mutters to, no doubt, a sulking Axel. I hear the rustle of sheets and the soft thud of her feet on carpet, then the flick of a light and a door closing. “I’m turning the exhaust fan on,” she explains. “Which means this becomes the cone of silence. What’s up?”

“I slept with someone.”

Her breath catches, and her mouth surely opens to react. But she made a promise, which means for the next few minutes, she’ll need to rein in her need to be extra. “Okay,” she squeaks. “Uh… the same someone we last spoke about? Or is this different?”

“Same someone. We only slept together that one night, then it was all over and life went on.”

I know she wants to scream and demand details. To make noise and flap her arms. The fact she doesn’t is a testament to the love she has for me.

“Okay. So you slept with him again?” she asks instead. “Or are we talking about that one isolated incident?”

“We haven’t slept together since. But we’ve hung out a lot.”

“You have?!” she explodes. “Since when? Why didn’t you tell me? And what does Ruiz think of you having another guy at the apartment?”

I remain silent, accusatory, and give her a chance to remember her promise and adjust her reaction.

“I mean…” she clears her throat and forces herself to be serious. “Sorry. Okay, so you’ve hung out with this person, according to your own words, a lot.”

“Yes.”

“Which means you like him. Why are you freaking out?”

“Because he’s here right now.” Never mind the fact he lives here. “And he told me he loves me.”

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