Draw the Line

chapter twenty-seven

"It's an incredibly late but still very sincere, congratulatory gift," I admit, looking up at him. His brows cinch in confusion, so I clarify, "For the draft, I never said congratulations."

My cheeks warm, not wanting to admit why. He knows, though.

I was jealous. I was eaten away with spite, my mind spiraling with thoughts of him hanging up the phone to go lick someone. Someone who wasn't me.

It's been over a month since he left me that voicemail and almost as long since we agreed to be friends with benefits. I haven't felt a surge of jealousy like that since the night of that missed call, and looking over at him now, part of me wonders if that's because there's nothing to be jealous of or because he's perfected the art of discreet casual sex with strangers, leaving no trails or evidence behind.

It has to be the latter. I know that. Not only because Micah has never been a one-woman man, but because we both know that what he really wants, he's not getting from me. As much as his hands and lips and tongue have explored my body, it's not the same as what most other girls are willing to give him.

The soft hum of casual bliss that's been thrumming over my skin stops dead, leaving my body cold and empty as I trace my finger down the line near his middle finger. The deep crease. The unbroken, unwavering path down his palm. That love line is destined for someone. Someone gets to keep him — someone, who won't have to hold onto the ghost of him after he's left.

He grabs my hand, threading his fingers through mine. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I nod, my eyes trained on the bracelet. Mostly to watch my finger run over the braided colors, admiring how the black ink underneath blends so perfectly with the black thread, but also because the backs of my eyes are burning, and I can't cry about this.

"I have a present for you. A birthday present." I don't have to look up to know he's smiling, the kind of smile that's a few watts brighter than usual. The one meant to make me smile, too. But I keep my eyes on his wrist, now tracking the art climbing up the back of his hand. The white paint dried onto the sides of my fingers is rough, like the calluses on his, so I'm careful not to brush them against his skin. "But I'll have to give it to you after because we're here."

I look up at that. I didn't even realize we had left the highway.

His truck is parked on the street in front of a small house, the stained glass window panels on the front door illuminated by the warm light inside. The sign hanging above the front porch sways heavily in the strong breeze, pulling the dark gray clouds above closer.

Perla's Psychic Readings.

"What?" I sit up, setting both of my Docs back onto the faded floor mats. "Are we here for a reading?"

"I did some research." He puts the truck in park, cutting the engine. "Apparently twin flames —" His tongue pressed into his cheek like he's trying not to laugh as he says it. "Reincarnate together. I figured we could see what other lives we've lived. How many times our paths have crossed."

He clearly doesn't believe it, but the flicker of something that feels a hell of a lot like hope whispers to life deep inside my chest — hope that maybe, in some other life, that line was destined for me.

A rush of cool air only feeds that flickering flame when he opens my door. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I pull my bag onto my shoulder, smiling at him as he leads us up the walkway. The icy air should have bitten at my bare legs, but the heat of excitement that sears through me spikes my blood as I hurry past him, climbing the stairs to her front porch. I've never thought about the possibility that being twin flames — maybe, potentially, hopefully — would mean we could have lived past lives together. Another wave of excitement crashes over me when he steps up on the porch behind me, close enough to warm my back as he leans forward and rings the doorbell.