The Space Between Us. Megan Hart

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      This book is dedicated first to Superman, who can’t dance worth a damn but who’s always willing to give it a shot.

      To my family and friends, of course and as always, because without you I would never have any stories to tell.

      To the BootSquad, for reading this and helping me make it better.

      To my bestie, Lauren Dane, who sometimes sends me links to horrific porn.

       Acknowledgments

      Special acknowledgment to Vicki Vantoch, author of The Threesome Handbook: A Practical Guide to SLEEPING WITH THREE, which I found as an invaluable resource while writing The Space Between Us.

      As always, I could write without listening to music, but I’m so glad I don’t have to. Below is a partial playlist of what I listened to while writing this book. Please support the artists through legal means.

      Can’t Get it Right Today—Joe Purdy

      Closer—Joshua Radin

      Come Here Boy—Imogene Heap

      Early Winter—Gwen Stefani

      Ghosts—Christopher Dallman

      Glory Box—Portishead

      I Think She Knows—Kaki King

      Is Your Love Strong Enough—Bryan Ferry

      Journey—Jason Manns

      Look After You—The Fray

      Nicest Thing—Kate Nash

      No Ordinary Love—Sade

      Reach You—Justin King

      She’s Got A Way—Billy Joel

      Stiff Kittens—Blaqk Audio

      Use Somebody—Kings of Leon

      Your Song—Jason Manns

      Everyone has a story. Here’s how this one ends.

      Charlie’s mouth.

      That’s what I want on my body now. His hands and mouth. Tongue, teeth, fingers. I want the crush of him on top of me, the silken brush of his hair against my flesh, the whisper of his lashes as he closes his eyes when he kisses me.

      I want Charlie’s mouth, and yet something makes me turn my face when he moves in close. Charlie sighs and presses his forehead to mine. His eyes shut, but I can’t seem to close mine. I have to see him, even this close. Every hair and pore, every scar. Every blemish and flaw that make Charlie so perfect.

      “If I’d known,” Charlie says. His hands are heavy, one on my shoulder, the other on my hip. His breath smells of whiskey and smoke. He looks like Charlie, but he doesn’t smell like him.

      I don’t want Charlie to wish he’d made a different choice.

      Please, Charlie, I think. Please don’t tell me you wish you’d missed all of this.

      Charlie sighs. “It’s just … there’s this space between us. This big wide space. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

      We fill it, I want to tell him, but say nothing. The words won’t come. If I can’t kiss him, how on earth could I possibly tell him that I love him? That it doesn’t matter where Meredith’s gone or if she’s coming back. All we need is right here. The two of us will find a way to make things work. That it will all be okay.

      I could tell him that, I think, as Charlie pulls away. His back is toward me. His shoulders slump. The jutting lines of his shoulder blades urge me to reach and touch, but my fingers curl in on themselves instead. I touch myself because I won’t touch him. I could tell Charlie it will all be okay. It will all work out. But though I can’t say I’ve never told a lie in my life, none of them have been to Charlie. I’m not about to start now.

      “I’m sorry,” Charlie says again in a low hoarse voice. He doesn’t sound like Charlie now, either.

      “I’m not,” I say finally. “I’m not sorry about any of it, Charlie.”

      And that, at least, is the truth.

      Chapter 1

      Everyone has a story. That was Meredith’s schtick. How she got us talking. Sometimes she asked about our favorite childhood candy, our biggest fears. What we’d dreamed about the night before. She asked, we answered. I never thought to question her about why she wanted to know, just like it never occurred to me to wonder why we all wanted to tell her.

      Today it was about crazy.

      “So, Tesla, tell me. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” Meredith said this with gleaming eyes and lips wet from where she’d licked them.

      Unlike some of the other times, I didn’t have a ready answer for her. “Haven’t I told you enough stories?”

      She shook her head, her sleek honey-blond hair falling just so on the shoulders of her soft, pale blue cardigan. “Never enough. Carlos here already told me about how once he got caught jerking off to old people porn.”

      I paused, jug of coffee in my hand, and looked at them both. “Whaaaat?”

      Carlos is a writer. We get a lot of them in Morningstar Mocha because we offer a bottomless refill for under two bucks, and free Wi-Fi. Carlos was in there every day, tapping away at his keyboard with his earbuds in before he headed off to his day job. Today he’d succumbed to the seduction of Meredith’s charm and actually closed the lid of his laptop. That was pretty crazy.

      Meredith came to the Mocha to use the free internet and drink coffee like the writers did, but she wasn’t a writer. Meredith sold things—candles СКАЧАТЬ