Then she’d yawned and pressed her lips to mine, mumbling something about coffee before pulling herself up and wandering naked into the kitchen, and I’d been struck like lightning with a single thought.
She’s fucking perfect for me.
And she is. She really is, and there’s a war waging in my chest, because I know she’s leaving and it’s tearing me up inside.
I’ve finally found the perfect girl for me, and I’m going to have to let her go.
It fucking sucks.
That was hours ago, and I’m still reeling. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Luckily, though, if Star notices I’m acting different around her, she isn’t saying anything. Instead she smiles at me as we make our way down the street, our fingers tangled together. As we turn the corner, Bruiser tries to make a dash after a giant orange cat that crosses his path, jerking on the leash hard enough that I have to drop Star’s hand and use both of my own just to keep him from racing off after that freaking giant cat. Seriously, that damn thing is easily twice the size a cat should be. Apparently the good people of the neighborhood don’t know the word restraint when it comes to feeding their pets. The thing practically waddles as it walks. Its tail whipping back and forth in the breeze, almost as if it’s mocking us, and Bruiser starts losing his shit, barking his fool head off as the cat trundles away like it doesn’t have a care in the world. Like it didn’t just almost run out of luck and meet its damn maker.
“Stupid cat,” I mutter, shaking my head as I pull back on Bruiser’s leash. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I tell my dog. “You want to chase the pussy. I don’t blame you.”
Star throws back her head and laughs, and that damn fishing hook sinks into my navel again, tugging me toward her at the sound. I don’t know if it’s the sound of her laugh that does it, or the sight of her dark hair tumbling down her back, or the long pale line of her throat, but either way, I can’t stop myself. I have to touch her. I reach out to snag her hand with my free one again. And she lets me, but then, an instant later, she shoots me a little grin and twists our hands around so that only our pinkies are linked.
Pinkie swear, I think, and duck my head for a moment, flashing back to our mornings in bed, and how our hands almost seem to gravitate toward each other’s, how our fingers link together in our own little promise, again and again.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to let her go.
Suddenly Star stops walking, and I jerk to a halt beside her.
“Shit,” she murmurs. “Not again.”
My brow furrows, and I glance over at her. She’s staring down the street, toward her mother’s house, face torn between anger and sadness. What the hell?
I turn to look.
There, standing at the end of her mother’s driveway, is a couple. Nosy assholes, just like a few weeks ago.
Star was right. It’s happening again.
Shit.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m already moving. My legs are pumping and I can feel my jaw clench as I approach the intruders.
“Hey,” I snap as soon as I get close. What the hell do you people want? The words are on the tip of my tongue along with fuck off, but as soon as the hey is out of my mouth, the couple turns to look at us, and the words die before I can get them out. I recognize them.
They’re from the diner. The skinny waiter and the pregnant waitress. And judging by the looks on their faces, they aren’t here to start trouble like the stuck-up women in the overpriced tracksuits. In fact, now that we’re closer and I can really see them, they actually look a little . . . scared.
Oh, fan-fucking-tastic, I think. More people who think I’m going to run them down in the streets. But . . . no. Scared isn’t the right word. More . . . timid. Nervous at the very least.
“Can I help you?” I say instead, tugging Bruiser to a stop and twisting my hand around so I can link my fingers properly with Star’s.
“Uh, hi,” the guy says, his gaze darting between me and Star and then finally, after a few passes, back to the pregnant girl beside him. She gives him a wide-eyed look from behind her thick-framed glasses that speaks volumes. He shuffles his feet and clears his throat before turning back to us, sinking his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “I’m York, and this is my sister. Um. Maisie.”
He jerks his elbow back toward the girl, who raises a hand and waves awkwardly with a murmured “hello.”
“Um . . . ” I can see how nervous this kid is from here. It’s ridiculous. He’s shaking so bad I could knock him over with a cough. “We were just wondering . . . ” He glances back at his sister, who finally rolls her eyes and tilts her body to look past him, toward us.
“We were wondering if we could take the sofa.”
It takes me way longer than it should to figure out what she’s talking about. Then I realize they’re not looking at the house itself, not pointing and laughing and looking down at it like those women had. Instead they’re looking at the sofa that we’d set out on the curb that afternoon.
“Oh,” I say, and glance back at Star. She’s got her free hand clapped over her mouth, so I can’t see her smile, but it’s shining through clear as day in her eyes. I smile and sink my teeth into my bottom lip, trying to stifle it. The last thing I need is for them to think I’m laughing at them, even though I kind of am. I turn back to Maisie and York, and beside me Bruiser wags his tail so hard I’m sure I’m going to have a bruise on my thigh where it’s thumping over and over. “You want it—” I turn slightly to catch Star’s gaze. She nods and I feel the smile spread across my face as I turn back to Maisie and York. “—it’s all yours.”
One sofa down. Only five more to go. Maybe this wasn`t going to be as bad as I thought.
After that, the tension slowly dwindles and then dies, and we stand there talking and laughing together as the sun sinks below the horizon.
“Look, man,” York says, shifting from foot to foot. I’ve only known this kid for maybe an hour all put together, and I can already tell that he never really settles down. He is always in motion. It is making me fucking dizzy. I want to reach out and grab him by the shoulders and tell him to stay fucking put. “I heard about the shit that went down at the diner when you applied. And what happened to your car. I just wanted to say, you know. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” I say, taking a drag of my cigarette and ashing it onto the sidewalk. “Not your fault.”
“Still . . . ” he says, trailing off and bouncing a little bit on the balls of his feet, hands still in his pockets.
“What my brother is trying to say, and failing,” Maisie says, shooting the kid a dirty look before shaking her head and turning back to me, “is that we’re sorry you were treated that way.”
“Not super surprised, though,” York adds, helpfully.
We all turn to look at him, and his eyes widen. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds them up in front of him, in defense. “Hey, woah, no. No. Not like that.” He turns to me. “I didn’t mean like you deserved it or anything. Seriously. I just meant that the people at the diner suck, that’s not news. It isn’t shocking that they’d treat you like that. That’s all,” he says, and glares at his sister like way to throw me under the bus, sis.