Page 6 of I Can't Help It

“You see her at work, have you noticed if she’s dating again?”

Frickkkk.

Why is he asking me that? There’s no way I can be his wingman anymore when it comes to Ava…

I rub my palms over my thighs. “No, I haven’t noticed that she’s dating again.”

Flirting? Yes. Dating? No.

What would Ava’s response be if I asked her out on a date?

Every part of me is dying to know, but it doesn’t matter. Nope. Because I am NOT doing that. I am NOT asking Ava on a date. Bro-code exists for a reason, and I am NOT going to be the cause of its extinction.

“Hmm,” he hums, folding up my straw sleeve next, “maybe she’s just not ready yet.”

Thankfully, his blue eyes are focused on the annoying task he’s occupied himself with, so he doesn’t see the wince that I can’t keep to myself. He wants her back, I’m sure of it, and my stomach is sinking just like the Titanic did.

Change the subject, change the subject, change the subject.

But I don’t.

I surprise myself by leaning into the conversation. “Well, Ava and I don’t talk a lot. She could be going out with someone, and I’d probably never know.”

Not true. Untrue? Either way, if Ava were dating again, I’d most definitely know.

I pay wayyyy more attention to her than I’d ever let on. Like, if someone randomly asked me what color Ava’s nails are painted right now, I wouldn’t hesitate with my answer. Her nails are all painted with a golden yellow color, except for her thumbs and ring fingers—those are painted with a sunset orange color. Pair that with her soft brown waves (I’ve never touched her hair before, but it’s gotta be soft), those lush meadow eyes, and she’s the epitome of autumn.

Am I a nerd for comparing her to my favorite season? Maybe. I still stand by the comparison though.

“But she’s okay?” Wyatt asks, still not looking at me as he rips up my straw sleeve. “Everything’s been good?”

I hate how much I want to hate that he still cares about her. Ava doesn’t deserve a d-bag ex, but it’d make my feelings for her a lot easier to deal with.

Bury the feelings, Luke. Grab a shovel and bury those suckers! Six. Feet. Under.

“Luke?” Wyatt’s voice is clipped as he finally looks at me. “Is Ava okay?”

Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’m sure you still have her “digits,” unlike the guy over here who’s suffering on the daily.

I’m not bitter. Facts are facts.

I mentally count to ten, willing myself to chill out. “She seems fine.”

Correction: she is fine.

Fine, sexy, and tempting as—

“Well, keep an eye on her, wouldja?” Wyatt interrupts my thoughts. “Not to sound like a Mafia boss or something, but I just want to make sure she’s doing well without hovering like a weirdo.”

So, asking me to keep tabs on her doesn’t fall into the “like a weirdo” category? Very rarely do I understand his logic. And if I wasn’t already convinced that he wants her back, I’d be fully convinced now.

“Yeah, sure thing,” I tell him, even though my skin is itching all over.

Change the subject, change the subject, change the subject.

This time, I do. Because it’s the safer option.

“Hey, Wy, what are you thinking about for dessert?”

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