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Plus, I remember how Sloane looks at a man when she really wants him. And she isn’t looking at her fiancé the way she used to look at me. I’m more pleased about that than I should be.
Sunny. I wonder if he knows what that nickname does to me. How it makes my stomach flip.
“I love the moon on nights like this,” she murmurs. “It makes everything appear almost silver. It makes everything glow.”
The girl who’s always there for me. The girl I almost lost.
“Do you think about me?” I
“When we go weeks or months without talking or seeing each other . . . do you think about me?” “Why?”
“I don’t know. Here. With you.” I gesture between us. “I keep forgetting about everything else in my life. Everyone else. But when we’re apart I constantly come back to y—you know what? Never mind. Just ignore me.”
“Every fucking day, Sunny.”
“Yeah. A robin’s egg is more accurate. Remember when we were walking to the river that one time and the shell fell out of the tree in front of us? You were so excited about there being baby birds, and I remember picking it up and looking at you, thinking that it matched almost perfectly.” He chuckles when he finishes his sentence, like it’s just a friendly walk down memory lane. But inside, I’m the one who’s spinning now.
I’m too tired to focus on anything other than how the water is the exact color of Sloane’s eyes. I was wrong about the sky. I was wrong about the eggshell. It’s the glacier lake. I see her everywhere.
I drift off staring at the crystal-blue water. Daydreaming about the girl with crystal-blue eyes.
The way his hair curls out of the back of his hat makes the tips of my fingers itch.
Jasper: Sunny. Be less cool. Come save me. The waitress keeps trying to talk to me. Sloane: So talk to her. Jasper: I don’t like talking to people. Sloane: You talk to me. Jasper: You’re not people. Sloane: Lmao. What am I then? Jasper: My person.
Is pool supposed to be sexy? Because Jasper makes it look sexy.
The way that boyish smile lights up his face when I complain about him kicking my ass. I hate losing . . . and yet, to see him smile like that, I’d lose over and over again. I’d sit on a cold roof. I’d dance in the rain. I’d go on a road trip and drink shitty beer and eat greasy foods. For Jasper I’d do anything. Except actually tell him that. Because when he turns me down, I’ll break. A million little pieces of me scattered into the wind. It doesn’t matter that my love for him is pathetic and tragically unrequited. It just is. The sky is blue. The grass is green. And I’ve loved Jasper Gervais
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Everything about Sloane Winthrop is fucking distracting. And I’ve been trying really damn hard for a really long time not to notice. When I brush my fingers over her cheekbone, she sucks in a sharp breath. Both our gazes move to my hand, the one that shakes subtly under the scrutiny. I just swallow and forge ahead, forcing myself to stare at my fingers and where I’m spreading the clay rather than her baby blues. I have to be careful with her. I don’t want to get it in her hair. Or her eyes. I’d like my low point for the night to remain hitting her in the face with a water bottle. When I smudge
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Summer: Help with what? Are you guys okay? Sloane: I’m so hungover. I want to die. Willa: Nice. Shame spiral. Did you bang him? Sloane: No. We gave each other facials and passed out awkwardly. Willa: High five. I love it when Cade gives me a facial. Summer: Good god. Sloane: That is . . . not what I meant.
I watch his lips press together and come apart to form the words. And god, I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. I want this moment to never end. I want to live in this truck, in the snow, at the top of a mountain with him and never leave.
Before I can say never, he cuts me off with, “Because I think I’m about to fuck everything up between us.” And then he kisses me. His lips mold to mine and his fingers weave into my hair as his grip turns soft. I go still with shock—utter disbelief—and when I do, he stops, pulling away as his warm palm slides down over my throat to look me in the eye. “I’m sor—” I cut him off by launching myself back at him. And he doesn’t miss a fucking beat. He doesn’t kiss me like a friend. He kisses me back with equal fervor. He kisses me like he wants to consume me. And he does.
Are we going to sit here and keep pretending that things don’t feel different between us now?” “They’ve always felt this way for me!” she explodes, arms flung wide, eyes shining with emotion. “And you’ve never noticed. But now you do? What am I supposed to do? Jump for joy and say thank you for blessing me with your interest?” I pale, hands going clammy on the wheel. I respond in a stream of consciousness, trying to explain myself in the wake of what she’s just said. “I mean . . . we all knew you had a childhood crush. I was a teenager. But you were just a kid. And then you outgrew it. You had
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told myself I would only touch her for four seconds. I told myself I would only kiss her for four seconds. I told myself I would only be mad about seeing that sparkly fucking ring dusting over my tattoo for four fucking seconds. And it turns out I’m a big fucking liar. I’m still touching her. I’ve still got my fingers stuffed in her tight pussy.
I lie here thinking about how this entire night is quintessentially us. Highs and lows, pleasure and pain, happiness and sadness. Secrets and truths. With Sloane the rest of the shit in the world doesn’t matter because when I’m beside her, it always feels right. It soothes me. She soothes me. She always has. She’s that person for me. I’m out of my depth with her but this is Sloane. My Sloane. No matter what, we’re there for each other. My Sloane. I think it again and god it feels good.
Last time I woke up like this with her, I snuck out with my tail between my legs. No such inclination hits me today though. Instead, I lie here and bask in the warm press of her body, her soft breasts pushed up against my chest, and her fingers splayed out over the tattoo I had done to remind me of her. It’s my favorite tattoo. For my favorite person. I can still feel the way her body clenched around my fingers last night. The way she got wetter when I made her admit she thought about me while she was with someone else. There’s definitely a part of me that got off on that too. Watching her
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Because no matter what else is going on in the world, everything is better with her in my arms.
“I’ve spent years getting lost in your eyes, Sloane. The rest of you though? It’s all new. I imagine this is what going to Disneyland for the first time is like. Overstimulating.”
Roman shakes his head, glancing back down at whatever super interesting shit must be on the paper in front of him. “Sometimes it feels like all of you are just a bunch of seven-year-olds.”
I revel in the way he comes straight for me, kisses me, and squeezes me against his chest. I make love to him whenever I want. I dance when I want.
She’s never left me behind, and I’m not leaving her behind either. The only thought in my head as I make the hour-long drive back into the city is that Sloane needs me. She needs me to just be there with her. And I love her.
Everything aches—my heart, my throat, my chest—so I do the only thing that I can think of to make it hurt less. “I love you, Sloane Winthrop. I always have. I love you so damn hard I don’t even know what to do with it. You’re my person. And I think I’m yours too.” “You have always been my person,” she chokes out. “I love you so much.” I don’t pause. I don’t think twice. I tilt her head up and I kiss her. In the middle of a busy street for the whole damn world to see while snow falls around us. In the exact spot she walked away from me once before. But this time, it’s us. Together.
