Sweet Nothing(32)

Avery exhaled, suddenly seeming vulnerable and embarrassed. I touched her cheek, trying to think of something to remind her I was different.

“Is it lame for me to ask to see you again right now?”

She relaxed, settling against the mattress. She shook her head, pursing her lips to ask when. Before the word slipped from her lips, I said, “As soon as possible. Tomorrow. In the morning. Actually … is it cool that I just stay?”

“You want to stay the night?”

I shrugged. “Waking up next to you sounds pretty f*cking amazing.”

She pretended to think about it for a few moments and then leaned up to peck my lips. “Yes.”

I scanned her eyes for a moment and then rolled off Avery and made my way to her bathroom to dispose of the condom.

Flipping on the bathroom light, my eyes instinctively squinted at the intrusion. I bent over the sink, splashing cold water on my face, avoiding my own reflection. Small hands slid around my waist from behind, causing me to jump.

Avery’s reflection appeared in the mirror, her hair disheveled and sexy, her mascara smudged below her emerald eyes. Long, elegant fingers ran over my striped tattoo, and my muscles tensed as her nail dragged over the fresh ink.

“That looks new.”

“It is. Still a little tender. I actually got it because of you.” The moment the words tumbled from my mouth, I closed my eyes tight and gritted my teeth. What the f*ck, Josh? Why would you open that can?

I leaned against the edge of the porcelain sink and reached out for her, trying to play off what I’d said.

She stiffened in my arms. “Me? This isn’t like a line for each person you've …” She covered her face. “You were so sure this would happen that you already … oh, God.”

It took a moment to understand why she would be embarrassed. I leaned back, but she wouldn’t look at me. “Avery. What are you …?” When the realization hit, I frowned. “Jesus, it isn’t some kind of tally to show who I’ve slept with. I’d have to be one cocky son of a bitch to get a tattoo before I’d even slept with you.”

She peeked at me through her fingers and then dropped them from her face. “Then why is that—” she pointed at my side “—because of me?”

It suddenly felt hard to breathe, and I stiffened when she touched the stripes again. The truth was weighing heavily on me. What would Avery think when she heard about my past? She had a right to know, at least partially, where I had come from. Now that I had opened my big f*cking mouth about it, there was no turning back. Avery knew she was involved, I’d just f*cking told her, and she would want to know. She deserved to know if she was going to chance being with me.

My mouth felt dry, and I swallowed back a couple decades of insecurity and anger. Kayla had died because of me, and it was my fault our family had fallen apart. My parents still hadn’t forgiven me. How could I expect Avery to understand?

She reached out to my bare hips and pulled me toward her, looking up. “Talk to me,” she said, quoting me from earlier in the evening.

I cleared my throat. “How much alcohol do you have?”





With my hair in knots and my insides wonderfully sore, I stretched in bed, the floor peppered with tossed undergarments. My apartment was familiar but unfamiliar. The sheets smelled like a sweet combination of my lotion, Josh’s cologne, spilled cheap wine, and sex. I glimpsed at the clock, grateful it was my day off.

Josh was gone. I wasn’t sure what time his shift had begun, but he had warned me before I asked him to stay that he wasn’t so lucky.

I reached for his pillow that was once the spare, hugged it to my chest, and rolled onto my back, looking up at the ceiling. Every detail from the previous night replayed in my mind: the way his shoes sounded against my floor, the way his skin tasted, how his hands felt on the parts of me no one else had touched in quite a while. I remembered the glorious pressure of his fingertips digging into my skin, the filling sensation when he had slid inside me, his stomach gliding against mine with every thrust, his arms tensing, and the sound he had made when he came. My thighs tensed. I’d wanted the night to last forever, and I wanted to go back and do it all over again.

I let go of his pillow and rolled out of bed, trudging to the bathroom. The pipes rattled and whined when I turned the knob of the tiny shower. I paused, looking down into the trash can. A used condom. The soap dish had been moved. Droplets of water in the sink. Someone else had occupied the space of my apartment. It was strangely exhilarating.

I stepped under the water, for a moment mourning that I was washing away of any evidence that Josh had made himself at home against my skin. We had been tangled together for a night. We had gone from practically strangers to lovers in the span of a month—since the accident.

The water was hot, but I began to shiver. There was only one thing worse than Josh living up to his reputation. He had changed so much in such a short amount of time. I hadn’t known him all that well before, but what I had known of him … he had left all that behind. Why me? One of my instructors in nursing school had touched on the Florence Nightingale effect, where a caregiver develops romantic feelings for his or her patient.

I scrubbed my hair and skin, and then twisted the knob, standing in my shower, dripping wet and alone—again. I wasn’t paranoid. This was all too good to be true, and at any moment, I would wake up. My head panged, and I made a mental note to find the ibuprofen.