I told myself to put Asher out of my mind. Things are different now, but somehow not different at all. Because even though I’m older, we still can’t be together. And on top of that, he now hates me, for some unknown reason. But, turning my feelings off is easier said than done, so I caved to my desire to touch myself to thoughts of Asher. I imagined him sneaking into my room and slipping inside me. Only he wouldn’t be sweet like Jackson was. It would hurt—because everything with Ash hurts—and I’d beg him not to stop. I couldn’t even hate myself for it afterward because I was finally able drift off to sleep, blissfully sated.
This morning, however, is another story. The moment I opened my eyes, at six A.M. for some god-awful reason, a sense of dread blanketed my mood, like a dark cloud hanging over my head. I didn’t know why, but I was pretty sure Asher had something to do with it.
Now, I’m standing in the kitchen in an old white T-shirt that reaches mid-thigh, making breakfast burritos for the hungry men who will be infiltrating my kitchen soon on the griddle of the restaurant-style range. I look at the clock on the microwave—seven thirty. I have a good hour before everyone wakes up and shows up, but the food can be reheated. And I can guarantee the drinking will start before ten A.M., so these assholes will need sustenance.
The silence is too much, so I grab my earbuds and hit shuffle on my playlist. An acoustic version of “Hoodie” by Hey Violet filters through my headphones. Jesus, I’m pathetic because everything always comes back to Asher. This song included.
I’m sprinkling shredded cheese onto the potatoes, swaying and singing, when I feel a hand brush across my neck before clamping down. I whip around, wielding the spatula in front of me like a weapon, only to see Asher standing there, looking highly unimpressed.
He has on a thin, black tank top with the sides cut out and gray board shorts. His hair is wet and slicked back, as if he just got out of the shower, and I can’t help but wonder if he used my conditioner again. Now my heart is racing for another reason entirely.
“Jesus, Asher!” I whisper-yell. He tugs on the white cord, ripping the bud from my ear with a wicked smirk plastered to his face.
“I said your name. Multiple times.” He shrugs, like that gives him an excuse to scare the life out of me.
“Where have you been?” I ask, without meaning to, turning back to switch the griddle off and scoop everything onto plates.
“Don’t tell me you’ve missed me, Sugar Plum,” he whispers, still crowding my space, and I feel his breath on the back of my neck.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why no—” Asher starts, but stops, and I twist around to look at him expectantly. The playfulness is gone, and his expression is back to being stone-cold.
“What?” I ask with a nervous laugh. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Is that my shirt?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the tattered, blood-speckled tee. The one he left behind in my brother’s room the night he left. The one I snatched after he crawled back out the window, and sniffed in the privacy of my room for weeks afterward, until his scent was gone just like him. The one I don’t even think of as being his anymore.
“It’s mine,” I say firmly, chin thrust forward. My ears are burning with embarrassment and I feel my face heat, but I don’t show it.
“Funny, I bled on a shirt just like that.”
“Well, even if it was yours, I think the statute of limitations would be up by now.”
He laughs, more of a single huff, really, before scrubbing a hand over his face. “Why’d you keep it, Briar?”
I have two choices. I can either play dumb or tell the truth. The truth is awkward and uncomfortable, but I decide to go with it. Maybe if I give him a little morsel of honesty, he’ll open up about why he left the way he did, leaving all thoughts of college and Dash and me behind. Or maybe I’m just a glutton for disappointment.
“Because I was sad. Because you left me, and I had—no—have no idea why. Because the only friend I had after you disappeared was my own brother and I missed you so much that it physically hurt. And because this stupid shirt was the only thing that made me feel closer to you.”
Asher doesn’t speak, just stands there with his mouth pressed in a flat line. His eyebrows pull together as if he’s trying to work something out in his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but before I can get my hopes up, he snaps it shut.
Asher steps toward me, and I suck in a breath. He hooks a finger under my chin, and I have to tilt my head up to make eye contact when he’s this close. My hands that are braced on the oven handle behind me start to feel clammy, and I’m afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything to ruin this moment. His dark, mismatched eyes search my blues, for what, I don’t know.
But it all comes crashing down when I hear the last voice I expect to hear. Here. In my house.
“Uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Whitley says, each word dripping with disdain.
Asher snaps out of his trance, and the mask of indifference is firmly back in place.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I didn’t even hear her come in. I haven’t so much as laid eyes on her since the party where she bragged about hooking up with Asher, and if I never see her again, it would be too soon.
“Aw, didn’t Asher tell you? I’m his date for your brother’s party. Thanks for keeping him entertained ’til I got here.”
I look at him, my eyebrows clear up to my hairline, unable to comprehend the fact that he invited her, here, of all people. Of all places. That’s a new level of low, even for him.
“You’re not my fucking date,” Ash spits with more venom than he’s ever directed at me.
Before anyone can say another word, the front door swings open and Adrian, two thirty-packs of beer under each arm, and a couple of other people I don’t recognize make their way toward the kitchen.