First Dance (Strip in the City, Book 3)

17 • Boxers and Best Friends

Lucas

She reads my text, asking if she's coming home, but leaves it unanswered.

Which...I realize...is my answer.

She isn't coming back home. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Because I'm not her home. Flynn is. His apartment is.

I need to accept the fact that Kennedy and I will never be a thing and move on. Being love sick over her from a distance was gut-wrenching, but manageable. Being the love sick puppy that she pets every night has started wreaking havoc on my mental health.

I'm the foster dog who is definitely not getting adopted.

With that adorable picture of her on my dresser and her clothes in drawers next to mine, this has gotten too real.

Stupidly, I lean over and grab her pillow off the bed we've been sharing and draw in a deep breath of her warm, sweet scent. Holding her inside me for as long as I can.

Kennedy is everywhere, yet nowhere to be found.

This tiny apartment feels like an emotional prison I don't want to be in, so I toss her pillow back on the bed, grab my keys, and break out.

Walking will help. Walking always helps. It will give me something else to focus on besides Kennedy. Without a destination in mind, I start walking toward Midtown.

It's late, so the city is flooded with tourists who have just left Broadway shows and are looking for a good time somewhere else. Wonder and excitement are plastered on their faces as they stare up at the lights.

I shove my wireless headphones in and turn on the sad country music that I've been torturing myself with lately, which is exactly what I shouldn't be doing. But I can't listen to happy couples holding hands and pointing to bars.

The hope I've been holding onto that Kennedy will love me the way I love her is like a boxer in the tenth round. Just when he thinks he's got a handle on his opponent and drops his guard for a second to land that punch, he's the one who ends up knocked out.

But I swear, just before Kennedy hits me, there's something in her eyes that tells me she doesn't want to put me on my ass. Like when she kissed my neck at the bar. That didn't feel very friendly or fake.

I shake my head and rake my fingers through my hair. Is she waiting for me to tell her to call this wedding off? Does she want me to tell her Flynn doesn't treat her right, and she could be with me because I'd treat her like the fucking queen she is?

I could lay it all out for her. I could tell her how I'm feeling. That she's my home. That she's my everything.

That I've been in love with her since the first time I heard her laugh, even if I can't quite explain why.

Just thinking about pouring my love sick heart out for her has the exhausted organ beating twice as fast.

Hope rises off the mat once again, except, this time, he looks weary. He knows that I never read the tell right, and he's gonna get punched in the jaw again.

I don't know if he can take another hit.

Even if there's a glint in Kennedy's eyes that tells me she might share some of my feelings, I know she's already got her wedding planned out. She's got a dress and shoes and a color theme. And it's everything she's always wanted. Her dream wedding. The one she's been planning since she was a little girl.

Her uncle is gonna preach the service. Her fifteen best friends are gonna stand beside her. Over two hundred and fifty people have invitations with Kennedy and Flynn's names in calligraphy stuck to their fridge, just like I do. They've picked out food options and reserved hotel rooms and made wedding favors.