Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(78)

Babies? What?

A cold sweat breaks out across my skin. I propel myself forward to her.

“Hey,” I say. “How’s the mural coming?”

She watches me carefully. “Good. I’m getting the second dogwood tree mocked up today. Should start coming together now.”

“Your girl is very talented,” Jake says.

“Oh, I’m not his girlfriend,” Avery says sharply.

Jake’s surprise is genuine.

My reply is immediate. “Avery . . .”

“I thought you two were together,” Jake says. “Sorry if I got that wrong.”

Avery’s eyes find mine. She doesn’t smile or smirk or even frown. She’s just neutral, and I think that hurts worse than anything.

It’s like a sore that won’t heal, a rusty nail that sticks so deeply inside you that you know you’ll fight that infection for a very long time. This is a pain that’s going to stick around.

I feel sick.

“We’re friends. Right, Penn?” she asks. “No stakes claimed. Public relationships aren’t our thing.”

There’s a thread of hope in her eyes, but hope for what? What does she want from me? Marriage? Babies?

A trickle of sweat rolls down my back.

It’s too soon. All this is too soon. I can’t. When I try to love someone, everything falls apart.

“Yeah. We’re friends,” I repeat. The words hold less conviction than they did a while ago.

At that, Jake turns his back on me and leans in to speak to Avery. I’m seeing red, but what the fuck am I meant to do? Do I smash him and cost Dane a job? Do I even have a leg to stand on?

“Well, if you’re available,” Jake says, “I’d like to go to dinner tomorrow night?”

My body flexes. Jealousy sears my veins. “You can fuck off.”

“Penn!” Avery gasps. “What are you doing?”

I level my gaze to my adversary. “Talking to Jake.”

“I’m sorry. You just said . . .” Jake looks between us.

“Jake, can you excuse us?” Avery takes my elbow and ushers me to a room off the main area.

The light is too bright, the air too warm. Avery spins me around and stands in front of me like she’s some kind of giant.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

“What do you want me to do? Stand there and listen to that fucker ask you out?”

She narrows her eyes. “First of all, that fucker is nice. Second of all, that sounds fair to me, considering every person we see when we’re together you’re quick to assure that I’m not your girlfriend.”

“We aren’t labeling things. That’s what we decided, right?”

“Yes. Sure. That’s right. And by definition, that means you don’t get the right to march into a conversation that doesn’t concern you and act like a jerk.”

I don’t know what to say. She’s wrong. She does concern me. It certainly feels that way, anyway. But I don’t understand why, just because I don’t want to put a bunch of rules and regulations on us that I’ll never be able to follow, I can’t stand my ground.

“Look,” she says, “I’m not mad at you for this. But when we went into this . . . agreement, or whatever it is, I didn’t think I’d be portrayed as your naive little fuck-buddy.”

“What are you talking about? Why do you think that?”

“Because it’s true. You kiss my head and have your hand on my ass and then tell everyone that’ll listen that we’re nothing special. Like I’m an Alexis or whomever, and I’m not. And to be honest, I’m sick of pretending like I am.”

My head spins. I don’t understand. Does just being her friend mean I’m not supposed to touch her? I have to commit to her to get to be seen with her in public?

How does this work?

“Well, you get out of my bed and come here and talk to Jake about having kids,” I shoot back.

Her jaw drops. “Yeah. I did. And that’s such a weird behavior, isn’t it? For a woman to see herself as a mother someday. To talk about her hopes and dreams and goals.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

“What’s wrong with me? Are you serious?” I try to wrap my head around what she’s saying. “You spout off about wanting something real. I’m the realest person you know, Ave. I’ve never been anything but one hundred percent real with you.”

She stills. “But have you been real with yourself?”

I groan as frustration seeps out of me. “And what does that mean?”

“Have you even looked in the mirror once since this thing started and asked yourself the tough questions? You just . . . you tell yourself you can’t be this and you can’t do that, but those things are exactly what you want.”

“How do you know what I want?” I fire back.

“Because I see it in your eyes, you idiot. Everyone knows. And if you think you’re being real with me, you need to get real with yourself first.”

“Did you see that on TV or something?”

“No. It’s a fact of life.”

She looks at me with a coolness that sends an icy dagger right into my chest. I wish I could say something witty or nonchalant and walk away, but I can’t. All I can do is stand here and bleed and hope I can get it stopped before I die.