Page 1 of Honeyed

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ALANA

The advice my mother has always given me is not to burn bridges.

Someday, you might need to use it to go back to that person, relationship, job, or otherwise. To not lay waste to the foundation because it will only leave singe marks on your soul and guilt or regret in your heart.

But as I cross this particular bridge, looking down into the river I’ve known since girlhood, I wonder if it’s essential to burn bridges at some point. To give yourself no option but to move forward because trudging back into the past would be too painful.

To decimate something so thoroughly that there is nothing left to dwell on or wonder about.

It’s why I’m crossing this one, my sneakers slapping on the concrete as an early spring sunrise rises over the green rafters of the bridge. This path of the Delaware Canal isn’t the one I usually walk on; typically, I opt for the trail closer to my family home. That towpath has prettier stone mansions to peek in on, a group of turtles that always congregate on the same rock, and a gorgeous wildflower field I love to check up on this time of year.

But that is the path I usually take with him, and addressing any of the shit bubbling up between us right now is not an option.

The rapids flow over the rocks below, a kayaker visible from down in the calmer part of the river. Breathing in, my lungs trap the cool March air, and I relish the refreshment even if I’m bone-tired.

Aside from changing up my normal morning walk routine, I’ve had trouble sleeping. Both are side effects of not talking to my best friend for months, even if I have to see him every single day.

Why the hell did I ever convince my father to give Warren Teal a job?

Once upon a time, Warren was my best friend. We met in sixth grade while doing a project for our science class; the two of us had to soak apples in different acids and bases to see how the liquids would affect the fruit. From the moment we’d gotten paired together, I’d been my usual exuberant self, railroading Warren into coming to my house to do the experiment while using the excuse that my mother would make us cinnamon rolls as a snack if we did so. He couldn’t have looked more relieved when I suggested it, and I hadn’t known why or even caught on at the time.

But I learned later. After my middle school crush on him had already turned into all-out, mind-consuming love. After my mother had taken him under her wing the first time he ever came to our house. Because she knew, as did my oldest brother, Liam, and I guess my father, too; Warren Teal was the little boy who was in the house when his father murdered his mother. He was the up-and-coming quarterback prodigy who a wealthy older couple had adopted. He was the boy everyone whispered and wondered about.

That’s what happened when you grow up in Hope Crest, our idyllic Pennsylvania hometown on the banks of the Delaware River. Surrounded by pre-Civil War stone homes, thick, lush forests with acres of wildflowers surrounding them, and our bustling main street lined with small businesses, this is the perfect place to grow up. It’s also an ideal setting for the fastest gossip mill you’ve ever seen. My family is fourth-generation owners of Hope Pizza, the world-famous pizza shop in town, and the number of rumors and talk you hear come through the doors on a daily basis is out of this world.

It’s no wonder he was so quiet and relieved when I suggested he come over instead of doing the project at his house. Or, well, ridiculous mansion, I should say. The couple of times I went to Warren’s adoptive parent’s house, it felt more like a museum than a home. Arthur and Clara Wayborne were only trying to do good by adopting Warren and giving him the kind of money one needs to get into the professional leagues in football, but they hadn’t understood the type of trauma that came along with him. Instead, it only drove Warren deeper into himself.

Until he met my family, and they all but adopted him. Throughout the years, my parents have cooked him countless meals, moved him into his college dorm, gone to his graduations, and given him a job. He is as much a brother to me as my three biological ones are, and it used to be a blessing that I got to work with my best friend.

But no one knows the truth about us. No one knows what has transpired between us, how many nights I’ve spent crying over a man who will never know just how much, and in what way, I love him. Except a few months ago, I saw him knock down an obstacle that he’s always said has stood between us becoming something more.

And I’ve shut him out ever since.

My head swims with these thoughts, memories of our childhood and teen years assaulting me as my feet pound hard into the chunks of gravel and brown sand below them. My mind is so caught up, plus the pop music blasting in my headphones, that I don’t notice the body I’m barreling toward until I’m smacking into it.

“Jesus, you never watch where you’re going!” I catch as one of my earbuds flies out.

Hands grip my back, pushing the entire front of me into whoever I just collided with. The arms banded around me are steadying, and I’m surprised I didn’t take us both down with the force in which I slammed into this person.

One flick of my eyes up into stormy gray eyes, and I know why.

Warren’s jaw tics and looks even more like it could cut steel than it usually does. Said jaw is covered in chocolatey brown stubble, the same color of the waves brushed off his forehead with a little bit of sweat. He looks glowy, not disgusting in the way I feel mid-run. Which makes me think that maybe I should do a pit check, except he’s still pressing my body to his. Thick black lashes blink down at me, those golden-flecked grays growing darker by the second as he assesses me.

We’ve always had an unspoken language, and he’s understood me when no one else seems to. It irks me that he still has that ability.

It’s been four months, eight days, and approximately twelve hours since either of us has uttered more than a monosyllabic word to each other. It’s the longest we’ve ever gone without talking, including the stint where Warren was in the hospital when he broke his hand … the injury that ended any football prospects he had.

Never in my life have I felt more unmoored than these last four months, and now he’s acting as my actual anchor after almost running him over.

“Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” The dig pops out as I back up, my heartbeat in my throat.

Our eyes lock and duel because he knows I’m just as stubborn as him. And that I just pointed out that he broke our silent streak, even if it was forced by me nearly plowing him down.

“You never freaking watch where you’re going.” He rolls his eyes, showing off his toned arms as his fists rest on each of his hips.

I try not to notice the shape of his body, how his waist tapers down and then extends into a broad, lean chest. How he’s more than a foot taller than me, and that his legs look like they could go hours during any physical exercise. With athletic shorts hitting his mid-thighs and a sweat absorbent sport tee hugging his abdomen like it was sewn just for him, Warren looks like any famous athlete that women on the Internet are obsessed with. With the darker hair and smoldering expressions, he’s even more mouth-watering.