Page 56 of The Other Side

“Fishing trip with his dad for the weekend.”

I return my gaze to Brant’s. “Oh. I assumed that was Sean’s Honda Civic out front.”

“No, Honda isn’t his preferred brand,” he teases. “He owns a pickup like me. He just gets dibs on the garage considering it’s his uncle’s place.”

My lip tips up. “That’s fair.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

A tent pitches in my stomach across the silence. “Can I get a tour?”

“Come on.” He cocks his chin before walking off.

I follow him back down the corridor we came from. We land in the living room, beige furniture positioned along the reclaimed wood walls. A low-rise coffee table residing in the center of the floor.

My eyes scan the wall décor, parking on a white canvas above the sectional. There are a cluster of about five pine trees, half their silhouettes layered with a sunset in a double-exposed image.

My legs carry me forward. The hues of yellow and burnt orange coat the tiny, black branches, and suddenly I’m entranced. “You chose this?” I ask.

“What kind of question is that?” There’s a humorous edge to his answer, but he remains rooted at the threshold of the room.

The station wagon. Hummingbirds. Italian ices. All of it revolves in my mind like a carousel, and I bore my stare into the minimal painting. “I take it things are getting serious with her,” I blurt.

When I rest my drink on a coaster on the coffee table, Brant quips, “That depends on your definition of ‘serious.”

I inhale, straightening my stance. I run my fingers through my tousled waves, pinning my eyes to his. “Sex. I would consider sex serious.”

He still stands at the entry point. One of his hands is cradled between his thumb and fingers. “I wouldn’t.”

I can’t ignore his pinched gaze, noticing the way his eyes are more brown than hazel tonight. But that beautiful green still peeks through. Hints of his youth still embedded in the man standing just a few feet away.

His stubble is slightly thicker and darker. Framing his full lips that look as kissable as they once were. They’re still that special shade of peach. Perfect. Only now, I wonder how expertly they would massage mine.

Just like his fingers absently stroking his nestled palm.

My eyes sink to the rough digits, and it’s such a pity they’re not caressing my body right now.

I swiftly rotate my attention from him, stationing my eyes on the painting again. “Does she know that?”

“What’s your problem?” he asks.

“I don’t have a problem,” I counter, shrugging as casually as possible. “I just find it a little awkward that I interrupted you. Let alone the fact that you asked her to leave.”

“Then you should’ve texted or called me to warn me you were coming by,” he shoots back.

A snarl crawls its way onto my face. “Well, that’s a shitty thing to say. I don’t know why you insisted on me staying if I ruined your⁠—”

“I’m not mad that you interrupted my night.”

I whip my head to him. He briefly flips his palms out before sliding them in his pockets. “I just want to know why you did.”

My eyes roam over him. I notice his appearance is still mildly chaotic, and there are so many horrid images racing through my mind. “Did you sleep with her?” I ask. “Just now?”

“No.”

A tinge of relief spreads from my belly.

“I brought her here. We cuddled a bit. But we didn’t.” My eyes drift away from him, the relief vacuuming out just as quickly as it entered. “Now answer my question.”