2. Asher
Chapter 2
Asher
I should have made Isla mine years ago.
Or at least told her how I feel.
This is exactly what I’m thinking as I let myself into Isla’s apartment with her passcode. She told me she was fine when we got back from the festival. But I’ve known her long enough to hear what she wasn’t saying.
She’s furiously scrubbing the vacuum back and forth over an already spotless patch of carpet, as if trying to vacuum order back into existence.
She lets her coat hang off one shoulder as if she couldn’t be bothered to take it off properly. Her hair’s a mess, strands falling out of what started as a bun and now looks more like a hair nest held together by stubbornness and sheer will.
Gone is the Isla who can light up a room with a single smile, who once brought a town hall meeting to tears with her inspirational story about rescuing a box turtle. In her place is someone unraveling, piece by piece, and it twists something deep inside my chest.
My fists are clenched so tight my knuckles ache. I’d take her pain if I could, absorbing every ounce of hurt she’s feeling. Just hand it over. I’ll carry the whole thing. But that’s not how this works.
And yeah. That sucks.
She finally kills the vacuum, but still hasn’t noticed me. Instead of stopping, she pivots straight to the bookshelf like she’s on a mission, stretching up on her toes to rearrange books that were perfectly fine. A stack near the top wobbles, threatening to topple.
I cut across the room in three fast strides. One hand closes around her shoulder, the other shooting out to catch the toppling books just before they spill.
“Peachie. Stop.”
Her shoulder is warm beneath my hand, her breath rising fast under the soft fabric. My grip tightens, just slightly, before I force it to ease. It would take nothing to close the distance. Just one small pull. She’d be right against me.
I should have told her years ago. That it’s always been her. That she’s been loved.
But I didn’t.
I told myself it was the right choice. That I was protecting what we had.
Being responsible means thinking through every consequence and weighing every risk.
Dad drilled that into me years ago, long before he handed over the family gym. I still remember the way his brow pulled tight, the serious look on his face every time he said it. And I’ve been living by it.
I don’t want to disappoint her like I disappointed my dad.
Oh, yeah. And there’s a friendship pact Isla and I made when we were kids. No dating each other. Ever .
So I’ve played it safe, being the steady friend, the reliable shoulder. Though I do think I’m not the only one feeling the sparks when our eyes meet in a way that could power the town’s Christmas lights for a week.
I step behind her and ease the tangled coat off her shoulders. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder, and her tiny frame seems so fragile under my hands, like a sparrow trembling in my grasp.
She freezes. Then that fake laugh bubbles up, the one that makes my chest ache. “Oh, hey! Just doing a little cleaning therapy. You know how it is.”
I don’t smile. Watching her get hurt over and over is like being tied to a chair, forced to watch a fire I can’t put out.
Something needs to change.
“Isla, enough. You’re working yourself to death.”
“This is just my process, Ash,” she mutters, standing on her toes as she shoves another book into place with a little too much force. “Don’t you have something better to do than critique my shelving technique?”
I catch her hand before she can send the next stack into chaos. My fingers curl around hers, just for a second longer than they need to. I want to hold on and never let go, but I’m pretty sure that falls under “Things That Would Definitely Freak Out Your Best Friend,” according to an article I definitely didn’t Google at 2 a.m. last week.
I lean down slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. “No. You’re my priority tonight.”
Isla’s eyes widen, the golden flecks in her hazel eyes catching the light, but instead of their usual spark, they look dim now, broken. It makes me want to punch something.
Preferably Kyle’s face. Multiple times.
Her twin brother, Conner, would back me up on that. He might not be in town much, but he made one thing clear before he left—look out for his sister. That could mean a lot of things, and I’ve done my best to cover all of them.
And I made sure Isla didn’t notice. She’d never want revenge on any of her exes because she’s too busy convincing herself she was the one who messed it all up.
“Come on. You don’t have to hold it in, Is. Not with me.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a slightly squished up paper bag. “Especially when you’ve got emergency rations.”
I open the bag, revealing the strawberry-glazed mochi donut inside. Her favorite treat. We used to sneak out of school to grab mochi donuts from that Japanese bakery. The powdered sugar would always end up on Isla’s nose. We’d sit on the curb, sharing bites and laughing about nothing and everything. It was our secret tradition back then.
Now, that tradition’s become our Friday ritual. We’d walk to the bakery and split a box of mochi donuts. But on the harder days, I’ll swing by and grab her favorite. It’s my secret way of making her rough days feel a little softer.
She blinks, eyes darting from the donut to my face. With a small, hesitant movement, her hands close around it like it’s something sacred. A tiny sniff escapes as she takes a bite. “I always liked the strawberry one.”
But even as she chews, her eyes shimmer again. She blinks up at me, her brow furrowed. “I still feel so sad. I’m such a wimp. It’s pathetic.”
She never wants to trouble anyone, always worried about being an inconvenience. Just like three years ago when she helped Mike, ex-boyfriend number seven, move into his new apartment. He didn’t even notice she’d slipped and hurt her shoulder.
She wouldn’t have told a soul if I hadn’t caught her wincing and rubbing her shoulder during our movie night. The way she pushes through pain with that quiet strength makes me fall for her even more, but it also makes me want to shield her from ever hurting again.
“It’s not pathetic.” My hands find her upper arms, steadying her. “It’s just feelings . . . plus donuts.”
That does it. The dam breaks and tears spill down Isla’s cheeks. But even as she cries, she keeps eating the donut, bite after bite, cheeks puffed out like a sad little chipmunk storing up for an emotional winter. My heart shatters and melts in one fell swoop.
I pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her while she finishes the last bite. I hate Kyle for what he’s done, but I can’t bring myself to hate the chance to hold her like this.
“These donuts are so good,” she mumbles, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “But I still don’t understand what I did wrong.”
My hands rub slow circles on her back, trying really hard not to focus on how perfectly she fits in my arms.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Except for having a terrible taste in men. Present company excluded.
I swallow hard, resisting the urge to say it out loud.
“I supported his business when no one thought he’d make it. Used my own hard-earned savings to help him. The only time I said no is when he wanted me to blast his marketing services to all my clients.” She throws her hands up. “My clients trust me with their personal information. I can’t just hand that over for his sales leads. Am I wrong?”
“No, you aren’t wrong.” My jaw tightens.
I hold her closer, breathing through the wave of protectiveness boiling in my chest.
Isla pulls back slightly, her teary eyes locking on mine. “I thought I did everything right. I really thought this time would be different. But everyone leaves me, eventually . I guess I’m really the problem in all my failed relationships.”
A sharp ache spreads through my chest. If only she knew how wrong she is, how she already owns my heart without having to try.
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “You’re not the problem, Peachie. The problem is these guys can’t handle how amazing you are.”
She lets out a watery laugh. “Amazing, huh? That’s not what Kyle thought.”
I grit my teeth so hard it’s a miracle I don’t crack a molar. “Kyle doesn’t think. Period.”
That earns me another laugh, a real one this time. Can Kyle make her laugh like this?
“So . . . what’s my type then?”
I pause, wanting to say me , obviously. “Someone who sees how incredible you are and doesn’t make you question it.”
It’s vague enough to keep me out of trouble, but true enough that I mean every word.
“So,” I say, gently easing away from her and nudging the vacuum with my foot, “what do you say we put my cleaning skills to the test?”
I flip the switch, and the vacuum hums to life. “Bet I can vacuum circles around you.”
Isla arches a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Is that a challenge, Collybear?”
I grin at the childhood nickname. She’d coined it after watching me meticulously build a snow fort like a bear making the perfect den, combining “Collymore” with “bear” in her ten-year-old logic.
“Only if you’re not scared of losing.”
She narrows her eyes at me, then cracks her knuckles. “Oh, it’s on.”
As we dive into a very unnecessary cleaning competition, laughter spills into the room. I know the pain isn’t gone, not even close. But right now, she’s smiling again. And that’s enough.
I follow Isla to her bedroom, grabbing a few stray items along the way—until something on her nightstand catches my eye.
A very pink paperback featuring a fireman holding a puppy with the title Burn for You , written in bold, fiery letters.
Before I can comment, Isla lunges across the room and snatches it off the nightstand like it’s classified information.
“That’s just . . . a book club pick.” Her cheeks turn the color of the cover.
I bite back a grin. We trade book recs and movie takes all the time, but she never brings up the ones that make her giggle and blush.
She doesn’t know I’ve seen a few of those tucked between cookbooks on her shelf. Or that I caught her reading one while giving an impressively dramatic performance about finding the perfect snickerdoodle recipe.
She definitely doesn’t know I’ve read them all.
Every single one.
She’d probably start digging a tunnel to escape the conversation. But I just wanted to see what kind of guy she keeps falling for on the page.
Still clutching the fireman book like it might self-destruct, Isla quickly slides it under her pillow.
“Okay! Moving on.” She crosses the room, grabs a dusty box labeled Memories from the shelf, and plops down on the floor with dramatic flair. I settle beside her, close enough to catch a whiff of her shampoo. Peaches. Always peaches.
“Look at this!” She pulls out a faded photo of us, grinning. “Remember how we met?”
How could I forget? It was the day Isla, her mom, and her brother moved in next door. I watched in horror as one of the boxes split open on the curb, and a whole mess of books tumbled out across the muddy pavement.
In the picture, we’re all muddy and disheveled. Eight-year-old me is sporting what has to be the world’s most ridiculous proud grin, while tiny Isla clutches a rescued copy of Anne of Green Gables like it’s pure gold. Her twin brother, Conner is sprawled face-first in the background, a victim of our impromptu chase scene.
Our moms thought the whole thing was hilarious. My mom couldn’t stop taking pictures, absolutely delighted that her college best friend’s kids were already bonding with her too-serious kid.
Isla’s mom just kept apologizing between laughs for the chaos her children brought to the neighborhood, even though she’d been warning my mom for years about her twins’ tendency to turn everything into chaos.
Isla traces the edge of the photo, her smile turning wistful. “Can’t believe we are still neighbors and best friends after twenty years.”
And somehow, I still haven’t managed to win you over. Some people are slow learners. Apparently, I’m one of them.
“At least we were smart enough to make the friendship pact,” she continues. “Protecting our friendship from all that messy relationship stuff. Otherwise, it might have ended badly like today.”
“Yeah,” I force a smile, but it feels like swallowing glass.
If only she knew.
The friendship pact was made when we were fifteen, after watching her cousin Annie’s world implode. Annie’s lifelong friendship with her best friend was gone in the blink of an eye because they thought they could risk it all for romance. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Painful and impossible to stop.
“You don’t just lose the romance, sweetie. You lose everything.” Annie warned us both.
“Let’s promise we’ll never be like that,” Isla had said that day, her eyes fierce with determination. “No matter what happens, our friendship has to come first.”
I’d agreed. What else could I do? I was already harboring a crush that threatened to consume me, but the fear in Isla’s eyes stopped the words in my throat. I buried my feelings and signed that contract.
Better to keep Isla in my life as a friend than risk losing her completely.
Isla’s face scrunches up as she pulls out a faded pink paper from the box. Her cheeks flush, and she groans. “Oh no, not this.”
“What’s that?”
She shakes her head, crumpling the paper. “Nothing. Just some embarrassing old thing.”
My hand darts out, snatching the paper from her grasp as I stand. My height gives me an unfair advantage as I hold it just out of her reach, grinning while she scrambles to her feet with a dramatic huff.
“Asher!” Isla’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Give it back!”
I smirk, unfolding the paper.
Isla’s Love Bucket List: 3 Things to Do with My True Love
“It’s just some dumb thing I wrote years ago.” She makes an attempt to leap up and grab the paper like she’s going for Olympic gold. “Totally embarrassing. Hand it over.”
I scan the faded handwriting, thumb brushing over one of the wishes, imagining doing each item with Isla. Could I be the one to help check these off her list?
“What’s embarrassing about knowing what you want?”
Isla lunges for the paper again, but I sidestep her easily.
“It is dumb,” she mutters, her voice cracking slightly. “This is my tenth breakup, and don’t even get me started on how embarrassing each breakup got. Remember that time Steven, who ghosted me only to show up two months later, engaged to my second cousin? And that time, Mike dumped me during karaoke night, right in the middle of my performance of ‘I Will Survive.’ I’m basically collecting breakup stories like other people collect postcards. The Bucket List is just a sad reminder of how pathetic I am.”
Now , I have an excellent idea.
I tuck the list into my pocket and step closer, the space between us narrowing until I catch the sharp hitch of her breath.
“How about this?” I dip my head just enough for our eyes to lock. “We do it together.”
“No way!” She reaches for my pocket. “Give it back!”