Author: Cheryl McIntyre

It’s so hard to pretend everything is okay sometimes.

Sometimes I just want to be able to open my mouth and scream out every single emotion and thought I have. To be wholly honest, just once. It would feel amazing, that brief release. And then I’m sure all hell would break loose because people aren’t meant to be completely honest with each other.

I place my hand inside of his, enjoying the sensation it delivers. The calm familiarity. Yet, this isn’t like it’s ever been before. Something is happening. Something feels different.

I get lost in my thoughts, trying to place exactly how today differs from yesterday. Or a month ago. Or a year ago.

What’s scary is I can’t find it—that exact thing that changed.

Chase slips into the booth the waitress leads us to and I fall in across from him. He smiles at me before waving away the menus.

“We know what we want,” he explains. “Two cheeseburgers and fries. And I want a Coke.” He glances at me. “What’d you want to drink?”

I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact he ordered for me. “I don’t want a cheeseburger.”

“Yes you do,” he states confidently.

Okay, I do. Really badly. But I can’t eat like that. Not if I want to maintain my weight. A cheeseburger today means thirty extra minutes working out tomorrow. I’m not in the mood to work out longer. I’m more in a stay-in-bed-all-day mood. “Make mine a veggie burger,” I tell our waitress. “And water is fine.”

Chase sinks back in defeat. “Burgers were your idea.”

I shake my head. “For you. Not me.”

“Why not?” The skin between his brows puckers as he looks at me intently. I’m reminded again of how gorgeous he is while he sits there, so serious, across from me. Those kaleidoscope eyes peer at me inquisitively, waiting on my reply.

“I’m trying to eat healthier than that,” I say in a tone I hope conveys I don’t want to spend any more time on the subject.

He places his arms on the table and spins the salt shaker absentmindedly. The waitress sets our drinks down and as soon as she’s out of earshot, Chase pounces.

“Have you talked to Loden?” I watch his movements, so fluid, as he taps his straw on the table, loosening the paper wrapping.

I hesitate, trying to decide the best way to explain this. “Yes,” I say slowly. “He came by this morning.”

Chase looks at me expectantly as he sucks on his straw. He takes a long drink and I watch his throat muscles work with each swallow. “And…?”

I take a deep breath and release it quickly. “And he apologized for the way he acted.” This is true. He was at my door before my alarm even went off. He expressed regret for his jealous reaction, I apologized for causing the whole spectacle, and we moved on like it never happened.

“That’s it?”

I raise one shoulder as I tear my napkin apart. “That’s it.” I leave out the part where Loden told me to stay away from Chase because the thought alone makes him crazy. What I’m doing right now—sitting here alone with the person I’ve been forbidden to see—getting ready to share a meal… I would lose Loden in a heartbeat if he ever found out.

Yet here I sit.

“Did you show him your arms?” His eyes trail over the sleeve covering the evidence of Loden’s actions.

“I just want to move past it. I just want to move on.” I look away, concentrating on the dirty dishes splayed across the adjacent table. “No point dwelling on what can’t be changed. I made a note not to let it happen again. Now I continue on. Stronger because I’m wiser.”

Warm fingers twining around my hand draw my attention back. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me as if it’s still summer. As if I didn’t spend the past few weeks avoiding him as often as possible. Again. I feel like he can see all the things I want to say—all the truth I refuse to speak. And God, I want him to. I want him to see what’s inside of me and tell me it’s okay.

His lips open and I hold my breath in anticipation of what will come out. A plate blocks him from my vision and then we’re pulling apart as our waitress delivers our orders.

I curse the interruption, but sigh inwardly with relief at the same time.

As much as I want something from Chase, I know it’s such a bad idea.

Loden. I have Loden. I’ve invested too much into our relationship.

Chase is just a friend. I have to get my priorities straight. I’m not thinking clearly because the past couple of days have been so draining. And Chase eases some of the emotional strain. Because we’re friends.

“We’re friends,” I say aloud, needing to hear it. Needing him to confirm it.

He lifts his brows, but drops his eyes to the plate sitting untouched in front of him. “Friends,” he murmurs as if he’s testing the word on his tongue. He nods as he picks up his burger. He smiles at me. “Yep. We’re buddies.”

I try not to cringe. Buddies? That’s not right. I don’t like when he says it like that. Buddies? No. Buddies punch each other in the shoulder and watch sports together. They play wingman and meet up for beers after work. They give noogies and wedgies.

“Buddies” is all wrong. Ugh. Just hearing it in my head makes me feel sick. And disappointed.

Buddies?

No.

“Friends,” I correct. Friends have room to grow. Friends trust each other. Rely on one another. Care for the other person. Friends are permanent. They hug and spend time together. They have real conversations. You can call your friend in the middle of the night when you need them because you had a bad day—or your boyfriend hurt you. You know they’ll be there for you.

Buddies? You call a buddy to move a couch.

“What’s the difference?” Chase asks.

I pucker my lips and shake my head. “I guess there isn’t one,” I clip out. He takes a big bite looking smug and I push my plate away. I’m not hungry. And I don’t really feel like hanging out with my buddy anymore, either.

20

Stir It Up

Chase

“What are you talking about?” I scoff. “Have you lost your mind? That is the worst idea I have ever heard in my life. And this is coming from me.”

Annie’s frustrated sigh sounds in my ear and I almost expect to feel her breath against my skin. I shift the phone, adjusting it in the crook between my chin and shoulder. “It’s impeccable planning,” she says, trying to defend herself.

“No, no, no. Deep into the woods. That’s your best shot. You stay away from malls at all cost.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she replies. Her tone rises several octaves and her enthusiasm on the subject makes me smile. I’ll argue all night with her—whether I agree with her or not—just to hear the passion in her voice.

“Where would you get supplies?” she continues. “Where would you find shelter?”

“Live off the land,” I say. “Hunt. Make shelter out of nature.”

“You’d be dead within a week,” she states dryly. “You’re not thinking about all the elements. Nature would kick your ass. I don’t care how awesome your twig fort is, it won’t protect you from the cold. You’d get hypothermia or pneumonia. Or both.”

“I’d make a fire.”

“You can’t make a fire,” she squeaks. “They’d see it and you’d be dead no matter what.”

I chuckle, loving how riled up she’s getting. “How many zombies do you think would be wandering around the deep woods?”

I wait and when no reply comes, I sit up, swinging my legs off the side of the couch. “Hell just froze over,” I announce in awe. “I just won a debate against Annie Phillips.”

She growls into the phone. If she were here right now, that noise might make me kiss her.

“Admit it,” I sing. “I need to hear you say it out loud.”

“I’m thinking. Stop distracting me.”

“You have nothing. Just own it. I have a valid point—one you hadn’t considered, by the way—so I win.”

“There’s no prize for being an asshole,” she quips.

“Oh, man. There should be.”

“You’d have a proud trophy shelf.” She follows this up with a long, breathy yawn that I unintentionally return. I glance up at the clock on the common room wall.

“Shit. It’s almost two,” I realize.

“Mm,” she agrees.

These phone calls have grown longer and longer each night as the weeks have passed. I rub my face and stifle the next yawn. Damn. I’m becoming sleep deprived on a daily basis. What’s messed up is I don’t care nearly as much as I should. I feel a slight twinge of regret when my alarm goes off in the morning, but I already know I’ll be anticipating her call all day tomorrow.

“Get your iPod,” I tell her.

She groans tiredly. “Can we skip the nightly music class, Mr. Malloy?”

God. Shit. I can’t even explain how much my body responds to her calling me “Mr. Malloy.” That’s fucking hot, especially in her low, sleepy voice. I imagine her stretched out across her bed, long, blonde hair spread over her pillow.

“Where you at right now?” I ask.

“My bedroom. Why?”

“On your bed?”

“Yeah…”

Jesus. “Are you in pajamas?”

“Yes. Why?” She tries to sound annoyed, but I hear the true curiosity in her voice.

“What do they look like?”

“My pajamas? They’re just plaid boxers I stole from Guy years ago and a tank top. I think I stole it from Hope, actually. I can’t remember. Why?”

I laugh at her complete unawareness. She has no clue what her little description just did to me, either. “Is your roommate there?”

“Huh-uh. She’s dating some guy with an apartment. She’s hardly ever here. What’s up with the third degree?”

I ignore her question and ask my own. “You have your iPod yet?”

She sighs. I hear the springs in her mattress creak as she moves and it doesn’t help matters. I’m being stirred, slowly, but surely. All I can think about is how that tank top is probably sliding up her side as she reaches over to her night stand. I picture her rolling onto her stomach, her ass on display under those little, threadbare shorts. I know exactly what pair she’s talking about. I’ve seen her in them so many times before. The memory of how they show off her legs, long and lean, attacks my senses.

I groan quietly. This is Annie. She’s Guy’s step-sister.

I chant it over and over in my head.

Not her.

She’s off limits.

It’s wrong.

But I can’t find it in me to give a shit. I can’t find it in me to actually believe there is anything wrong with the way I feel about her.

How do I feel about her?

“Okay,” she says. “What song tonight?”

I hesitate. All other music is erased from my mind except the one song playing on repeat in my head right now as I envision Annie.

You know those moments when time seems to stand still? The ones where you try to decide what your next move should be? Where fifty different thoughts attack you and you have to make your decision on the fly? Because you know time really hasn’t stopped, you’ve just been sitting there, quietly contemplating your life like an asshole?

I’m having one of those moments right now.

“Chase? What song?”

“Stir It Up,” I finally say. “Bob Marley.” I close my eyes and jerk my hand through my hair. “And Annie?”

“Huh?”

“Think of me when you listen to it.”

“What?”