21. 21
Harlow
I find Killian playing pool in a game room. I hold up the registration.
“You bought me a car.”
He rolls his eyes and lines up his shot. The yellow ball floats into the pocket.
“Killian, I can’t afford the tags for this. Do you know how much insurance will cost for a brand-new luxury car?”
“I’ll pay it,” he mumbles, sounding bored.
I gawk at him as he carries on, hitting one shot after another perfectly.
“You’re pretty good at that,” I say, my mind still spinning.
“Thanks, my best friend and I used to play a lot. Asher.” He winces on the name, just for a second.
I nod and look at the title still pinched between my fingers. “Thank you for the car, Killian.”
He glances up, about to hit the white ball. His face softens, finally seeming like his old self.
“You’re welcome.” He takes the shot and adds casually, “Whatever you need.”
I hold myself, more confused than ever. He isn’t hugging me. Kissing me. He doesn’t get close, either. He definitely doesn’t make moves like he wants to have sex again.
But he bought me a car.
I text Keysha immediately.
Me: Killian bought me a new car.
Keysha: NO.
Me: Serious. That’s a boyfriend move, right?
Keysha: 100%
That’s what I thought.
I stand there, trying to muster the courage to ask him the obvious question.
“Killian, do you want me to be your girlfriend?”
“God, no,” he says harshly. “We hooked up once.”
I wince, feeling as stupid as I did in my kitchen.
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I, uh, need a drink.”
I spin fast and leave the room to fetch a bottle of water, scolding myself. I seem to be good at making things worse.
The night carries on and he stays mostly quiet. We make dinner together, watch a movie, and he falls asleep on the couch by midnight, which is unusual for him.
I use the restroom, and when I return, I sit beside him. His long body lies stretched out, his head next to my hip. I get comfortable.
Killian rolls over and—
He rests his head on my lap, then quickly drifts back to sleep. I hold my hands up, stunned we’re touching.
Was that a move? Is he making a move?
I don’t know, but as I stare down at him, warmth blooms in my chest. I love this closeness to him. It feels so good.
He might have truly rolled over and ended up using my lap as a pillow in the fog of sleep, but I don’t care. It’s strange to explain this feeling, but it’s like Killian is mine again. Like I can touch him.
I must be craving more humiliation, but it’s too tempting.
With the lightest touch, I graze my fingertips along his jawline.
The end-of-day stubble is course under my touch, but I love it mixed with the softness of his skin.
I trace his scar from the corner of his mouth all the way to just before his ear.
Then I smooth his eyebrow. The scar there is hidden beneath the black hair.
I almost wish it wouldn’t. He has such a perfect face, but something about the scars makes the distance between us feel smaller.
Like the imperfect version of this man could want a poor girl like me. The curvy girl that doesn’t have a perfect body like his ex. I’m a woman Killian would have never spoken to if not for his overdose. We met by chance under terrible circumstances, and that’s the part that’s so hard to accept.
I am not supposed to be here.
When do we go our separate ways?
Softly, I stroke his hair, wrapping the curls around my finger. With my other hand, I hold my book, reading into the night with him close. It’s my happy place. My Killian, plus my book, and no drugs. Just us. It’s a happy place.
In the morning, I grab my bag and new car keys. As I step onto the elevator, a hand hooks over the door, holding it open.
“You’re leaving,” Killian says.
I check my watch. “Yeah, my shift is over.”
He purses his lips.
I wonder if he even knows I pet him all night. Now I kind of feel like a creeper.
“Goodbye, Killian,” I say nicely, and guide his hand off the door. He appears mad as they close, but it is a win for me.
This was my first shift back. It was weird and confusing, but for a little while, he was mine.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared. I kept my job, got a new car, and Killian probably isn’t doing this because I cried in my kitchen — or maybe he is.
Either way, time will make this easier. We’re figuring out the after-part.
Everything will steadily go back to normal.
He looked hot today, though.
Really hot.
Butterflies sneak up again, and I cringe.
I wish—
I stop myself, because what good will that do except bring tears.
I get home and find another bouquet of roses on my doorstep.
What the heck?
“Please don’t be from Evan. Please don’t be from Evan.”
Harlow,
I didn’t get to finish saying the most important part.
Thank you for everything, and I am sorry.
I owe you my life.
If you ever want to talk, as a friend, I am here for you.
Love always,
Evan
He scribbled his phone number at the bottom. I exhale a long breath, staring at the note as my heart rages in my chest.
Why did he have to do this? He is supposed to be my past, not present, and certainly not in my future.
I set the roses and my purse on the counter. They seem less threatening with the ‘friend’ reference rather than romantic interest. Plus, my trash is full.
I look back once and freeze. Simple flowers, yet a strange feeling settles over me, unwelcome and dark. I flick off the kitchen light, as if that will make them — and this feeling — disappear.
In bed, I toss and turn before finally sleeping for six hours. When my alarm wakes me, I study for a while, pack my things, and head to class. From there, I go straight to Killian’s for my seven o’clock shift.
Sleep. School. Killian’s.
Repeat.
For some reason, the flowers stay on my kitchen counter. I finally throw them away a few weeks later, but their ghost lingers, and I sometimes stare where they once sat.