Loving You Was the Risk

Amy POV What the hell? I woke up with a jolt, heart racing as music blasted through the walls. For a second, I had no idea where I was. My eyes darted around the room until they landed on the familiar ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, clicking slightly on every third rotation. My phone was still in my hand from falling asleep with it last night, screen dark, battery probably on life support. Great. That meant reality had arrived. Something I really did not want to deal with. Or remember. Or acknowledge. But that was life, I guess. Or at least my life. Shitty since the beginning. I stared at the ceiling and tried to slow my breathing. At least I was alive. At least I had my brother. At least I had a roof over my head. I think. That thought helped for about three seconds before the truth hit me like a punch to the gut. Well. Damn. So much for that. My cheating, asshole ex-boyfriend had kicked me out of our apartment and slept with the neighbor. On the same day. Which honestly felt almost impressive in a deeply insulting way. But karma is a b***h, right? It had to be. I needed that to be true. I clung to that idea like it was the only thing keeping me from screaming. Not that I cared. Okay, that was a lie. I cared a little. We stayed together for two years. That was basically a world record for me. He was a piece of s**t, sure. Nothing dramatic, just verbally abusive in that slow, quiet way that makes you doubt yourself. And somehow, I had convinced myself that was better than being alone. At least someone was paying attention to me. At least someone was staying. Until he wasn’t. Everyone leaves. Eventually. So here I was. Asking my brother Austin for help again. My life had to get better eventually, right? With music blaring at six in the morning, which should honestly be illegal, I groaned and sat up, staring at the blank wall in front of me. No decorations. No pictures. Just a tiny nightstand next to the bed and the very obvious feeling that this room was temporary. Story of my life. I kicked the cheap blue blanket off and caught my reflection in the mirror as I stood. Five foot three. About one hundred and twenty pounds. Long brown strawberry hair that could not decide what color it wanted to be, falling past my shoulders in loose waves. People complimented it all the time, which always made my face heat up instantly. I would mumble a quiet thank you and feel like crawling out of my own skin. My eyes were hazel, a mix of brown and green that changed with the light. Not dark. Not light. Just somewhere in between. Like me. Somewhere in the middle of everything. I knew, logically, that I wasn’t ugly. But growing up with braces, glasses, and being the awkward foster kid did permanent damage. Even now, with contacts and straight teeth, I still did not feel pretty. No one had ever really said it out loud. My brother was too awkward. Benjamin made fun of me. My ex didn't know the difference between a compliment and his ass hole. What did I see in him anyway? And most girls I met at school or at the shelter were too busy surviving their own messes to notice anyone else. I stormed into the living room. Austin was dancing around the kitchen, completely unbothered by the time or my mood, music blasting as he cooked breakfast. The audacity of this man to be joyful on one of my days off. I stared at him for a solid minute. Light brown hair. Green eyes. Very unfairly good looking. Ugh. He always had the better genetics. If I didn’t love him so much, I would absolutely hate him for it. His leg muscles strained against his sweatpants like they were trying to escape. I cleared my throat loudly. “Austin James Calloway,” I said, “For the love of God, turn that music down right now! This is not how mornings should start. It's way too early. And find clothes that fit you for once. You look like you have leggings on.” “Well good morning to you too, sunshine,” he said cheerfully. “I’m making breakfast.” “Clearly,” I replied. I shuffled over to the small island and plopped down onto one of his two ridiculously rustic bar stools. Who wants to sit on old wood? That was my first thought when I saw them. My second thought, like always, was how proud I was of him. Six years after graduating high school and Austin had already built a life. After taking community college classes down the road and saving every penny from working at Wendy’s, he bought an amazing camera. That camera turned into family shoots, retirement ceremonies, weddings, engagement parties, and every other event imaginable. He became popular fast in our little town of Cocoa Beach, Florida. He knew all the good spots, as he liked to say. A few years later, he even bought this condo. Small. Old. But close to the beach and completely his. He was so talented it was stupid. Unlike me. The only thing I had ever been sure about was working with kids. Austin was the most important person in my life. I was incredibly proud of him, especially knowing we both came from the foster system. Success stories like his were rare. We made it. Well. He made it. Our parents were in jail. Or at least they had been the last time I checked. Drugs. Robbery. A lifetime of bad choices. They never called. Eventually, neither did we. Austin moved easily around his white kitchen with silver accents, granite counters a mix of beige, gray, and white. He looked way too happy, which immediately made me suspicious. “What are you in such a good mood about,” I asked. “You were yelling at me to fold laundry at midnight last night. Do you even know I worked a double at the shelter because Cassandra called out again? Tenth time this month. Something about a headache. If we weren’t so desperate for staff, she’d be fired.” “You’ll survive,” he said lightly. “That’s what everyone says before I don’t.” He laughed and added cheese to the eggs. My favorite. I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you making my comfort food. What did you do.” He hesitated. Then his face changed. Just slightly. One corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes avoided mine. The look of a man who knew a secret. My stomach dropped. “What,” I said flatly. “He just got back,” Austin continued slowly, watching my face. “Out of the military and finally moving back home. He’s helping me open the studio.” “That’s nice,” I said. “Very charitable of him.” “That’s it,” Austin said. I shrugged. “What do you want. Confetti.” “You’re terrible at pretending not to care.” “I do not care,” I said immediately, which was suspicious even to me. “Mmhmm.” I crossed my arms. “It’s been six years, Austin. I was sixteen. I’m an adult now. At the ripe old age of twenty-two. I pay bills. I have trauma and coping mechanisms. Even a bed time, although it depends on which shift I work.” “You’re rambling.” “I’m processing.” He leaned against the counter, studying me. “You always assume the worst about him.” “Because he made fun of me.” “He teased you.” “Relentlessly.” “And yet,” Austin said quietly, “you still hung around.” I opened my mouth. Closed it. Heat rushed to my face, immediate and traitorous. “That was years ago,” I muttered. Austin’s expression softened, but there was something else there too. Something knowing. Something protective. “You don’t think I noticed,” he said. “But I did.” I looked away, suddenly fascinated by the grain in the stool. “He’s not the same guy,” Austin added gently. “That is what serial killers say,” I replied. He laughed. “He asked about you.” My chest tightened. “That doesn’t mean anything.” “No,” Austin agreed. “But it doesn’t mean nothing.” Exasperated with the conversation, I finally replied, "Look, I know you are good friends...... AND I won't yell and scream at him for existing or coming over. But, if he makes me cry or upset, you're going to owe me one hundred dollars. Austin laughed-..... hard. "You are so full of it. You love the banter. And, you're on!" I retreated to my room before my face could give me away completely. I flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling fan as it spun. Six years. Six years since I last saw Benjamin Rojas. And yet my body remembered him in a way my brain refused to acknowledge. For a split second, an image flickered through my mind. A dark street. My heart pounding. Someone calling my name softly. A hand steadying my shoulder when everything else felt like it was falling apart. The memory slipped away before I could grab it. I swallowed hard. Not today, Satan! I was not sixteen anymore. I was stronger. I had survived worse things than a boy with a smart mouth and too much confidence. Still, the knot in my stomach refused to leave. Seeing him again scared me. And the worst part was that I did not know if I hated him. Or trusted him.