Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

The kitchen light is on and I can see through the opening in the curtains that her purse is sitting by the sofa. I ring the bell again. Rocking back and forth on my heels, I pray she answers. Then I turn around with a follow-up prayer that she doesn’t.

If I fail to come out hitting hard tonight, and I’m not even in a place to appreciate the pun, I won’t have the balls to do it tomorrow. There’s a chance I don’t have the balls to pull this off now either but the fact I’m standing on her porch, fortified with a little tequila thanks to Nora at Crave, I’m as close as I’ll ever be.

It would seem I have two choices: to tell her I love her or to tell her it’s over. That, however, is not the case. There is only one possible answer and it’s the one ripping my insides apart.

I love this girl, so it has to be over. It’s some fucked-up mathematical equation that reminds me why I went into history and not algebra. Then again, history says the best offense is a strong defense, so here we are either way.

I’ll miss the quiet times with Mariah as much as the loud ones, the moments where we’re in the car and not saying a word. Those times almost soothe me somehow. I’ll crave for the rest of my life the look she gets when she sees me for more than what I present to the world. She sees the good in me, the potential, the man who’s capable of more than a quick, amazing fuck. There won’t be a way to replace the privilege of being the guy she chooses to spend an evening with.

Blaire says there’s always hope, but I’m not sure if I even want to go there. What can I hope for at this point? That she moves on from me? That I don’t miss her so much I lose my mind? That she doesn’t feel half the pain I’m going to feel if I manage to go through with this?

I turn toward my car when a set of headlights comes down the road. It slows as it nears, pulling up the driveway at a crawl.

Scratching the side of my neck, the feel of my nails digging into my flesh is barely discernible in relation to the tight pain stretching across my chest. It’s hard to even take in enough oxygen to stay standing as Mariah gets out of the car. She gives a quick goodbye to whomever is driving, not even looking my way until the car has backed out onto the road.

She fiddles with a take-out bag in her hand as she makes her way toward me. Her steps are methodical, one in front of the other. Each one ratchets tighter on my nerves.

“Hey,” I say as she draws near. The frog in my throat is obvious and I swallow to press it down. “I hope it’s okay I’m here.”

“Sure.” She plays with a lock of her hair. “I, um, went with Whitney over to Peaches to get dessert.”

“What’d you get?”

“Cheesecake.” She flips her gaze to mine, her baby blues filled with unease. “We were going to bring it back here and watch some show about the royals, but we ran into Coach Collins and the new guy the school board hired for soccer.”

His name alone creates a storm inside me. My hands ball into fists at my sides as I try to remind myself I can’t be jealous. She’s not mine. And that right there is the most frustrating part of this whole damn dilemma.

“What’d he want today, anyway?” I ask, unable to help myself.

She pops the key in the lock and swings the door open. “Just to see about the delivery of some books and manuals I ordered for the football program.”

“Oh.”

“Why?” She steps inside the house, taking her shoes off by the door.

“It just seemed like a lot of talk and laughter over football manuals.”

Her shoulders lift and fall. “He’s nice.”

There’s more to it than that but she’s not going to give it to me.

My body burns from the tension in my muscles as I watch her busy herself with a hundred things besides looking at me. Each tick of the clock that goes by reduces my frustration over the fucking coach and moves it more toward a hollow sensation that tells me something is wrong.

“Are you going to come in or not?” A look is cast over her shoulder, one that can only be defined as on guard.

Before I step inside, I rethink what Nora told me at Crave: how you only come across true love once in your life, the kind of love that sets your world on fire. Love that makes you happily lose yourself in the smoke because you’d rather die from the fumes than live without it.