Page 22 of The Storm

“Five-second rule,” a guy says, so I half expect him to go and lick the champagne off the floor.

Dad throws his head back and laughs like this was all part of the plan.

“Plenty more where that came from,” he calls out over a chorus of approving cheers.

I shake my head, pick up one of the bottles that’s still spinning away between people’s feet, and swipe the broken glass in the corner as best as I can.

When I stand up and take a step back I bump straight into yet another body. It’s not the first time tonight. It’s impossible to move without running into people.

“Sorry,” I say immediately, even before I’ve fully turned around.

I come face to face with Nick. My whole body tenses the moment my eyes land on him. That’s just the way it is nowadays.

Three months.

Three months since the bonfire.

Since the almost.

Since I backed away from him like the ground had burst into flames beneath my feet.

He hasn’t mentioned it.

Not once.

Somehow, that makes it worse, because not mentioning it comes with knowing looks and half-smirks that radiate the vicious glee of triumph because I’m the one who bolted. I’m the one who flinched. I’m the one who chickened out.

He won.

Granted, it would be difficult for him to mention what happened seeing as I’ve been putting in a lot of effort into avoiding him. It’s not that easy when we live in the same house, on the same floor, in rooms just across the hall, so I’d at least like some credit.

“You’re home,” I say. I’ve barely seen him today. He’s probably taking extra shifts at the diner where he works as a busboy.

He quirks a brow slightly. “Your extraordinary powers of observation never fail to impress me. What gave me away?”

I mentally sigh and then force a smile. “Your sunny personality just makes the house come alive.”

I don’t know when the switch happened, but all the tension between us has started to leak out of me via sarcasm, and that’s not like me. I’m not a dick to people. Lately I’ve been making an exception, though.

And it feels good.

It’s like a tiny bit of pressure is released whenever he says something biting and I don’t just take it but bite back. He’s laughing at me. Mocking me. At least that’s what most of our conversations feel like lately. He even refuses to call me by my real name. Instead of Indy, I’m Blue to him. Just a random color.

That’s fine.

It’s easier this way. This way I can concentrate all my energy on not liking him, so there won’t be any room left for those late-night moments when I remember in exact detail what it felt like to want to kiss him.

So, yes, I try to avoid him. Lately, and I’m halfway sure I’m imagining it, but lately it feels like the more I try to avoid him, the more he tries to make sure I don’t succeed. Where before I could go days without laying eyes on him, he’s suddenly everywhere all the time.

Like right now. He leans his shoulder against the wall and settles in, so now I can’t leave either because these are the kinds of games we play.

His dark eyes take me in slowly, and I grit my teeth and resist the urge to fidget. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.

“Any New Year’s resolutions?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No? Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “You’ve always seemed like the kind of person who would make those.”