Page 89 of The Incredible Ordinary

It burns.

Leaves a mark that throbs.

“You don’t think she is?” he asks.

Who?

It takes my brain a moment to catch up.

“Probably,” I say. When did my voice get this husky? When and why?

“Was this a bad call?” he asks softly. “Am I making things difficult for you?”

Yes.

I shake my head. “No.” I shake my head again. “It’s fine. Creative.”

His proximity has wrapped itself around my throat, and now I sound like I’m choking.

He laughs. His forehead falls against mine.

He’s so close. His eyes are looking straight into mine, his laughing gaze full of mirth and devoid of any of the confusion that is wreaking havoc inside me right now.

“Think we’re good?” he asks, still grinning. “We’ve been kissing for a while.”

I barely manage a nod.

He straightens up and takes a step away. His fingers brush mine, and then my hand is in his. He takes a few more steps away, our hands extended between us, like we’re both finding it difficult to leave.

He waggles his brows at me.

“See you at practice,” he says.

“See you.” I’m surprised I manage to speak at all.

I watch him walk away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders relaxed, cool and calm. He turns around and walks backward for a bit, grinning at me like we share a secret. I suppose we do.

I take a deep, slow breath.

This is my street. I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s home.

So why do I suddenly feel like I’m seeing everything through brand-new eyes?

JORDAN

I stumbleinto the kitchen after yet another sleepless night, and blindly make my way toward the coffee machine, yawning and rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.

I grab a cup from the shelf and then stare into the distance while I try to remember why I needed the cup in the first place. My brain has been marinating in confusion for days, running in circles, trying to find answers to questions I don’t have the guts to ask.

Because what the fuck? What the hell was that? What even happened? And what does it mean?

Why was there a moment when I was pressed up against that tree with Milán in front of me—a brief, significant, weighted flash of a moment—when I wished the kiss was real?

I had no business having those thoughts. Do I like Milán? Yes. A lot. He’s interesting and fun, and somehow, even if we’ve lived two very different lives, we effortlessly click. Yes, I like him. More than most people in my life. That new friendship that’s developed between the two of us? It’s something sacred. I treasure it. I can’t wait to see him. Talk to him. His friendship is priceless. Invaluable.

So why the fuck has my brain decided to ruin it for me?

Because friends don’t have the thoughts I have.