Endless Bonds Copyright © 2016-2018 xXMopelXx All Rights Reserved.

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ou've been checking your phone constantly. Everything, OK?"

Tara's driving with her left hand and eating the frozen yogurt I bought her with her right hand. She's bringing us to Danny's Grill since I still haven't picked up my car from my house. I'm too broke to even afford gas, even though my mom claims she'll cover my expenses while I find a part-time job.

"Yeah. It's all good," I lie to her.

The truth is I'm a mess. My left-hand ring finger is empty, and my stomach is knotted in various ways because Pierre is being bizarre. He's barely called me, and our text conversations are short and straight to the point.

I miss talking to him about everything and anything. I mean, I know I'm faraway, but I still want to make the effort. I know he's tired and I'm busy, but the first two weeks of me landing here weren't so bad. We were still talking and messaging like normal.

Now I feel a strange rift slowly forming between us.

The only notification I got from him this morning was an e-transfer of 150 CDN dollars, the one he insists on sending me on a weekly basis because he told me he's got to treat his girl like a reine.

I'm not there with you, Cher, so I need to make sure my girl has tout ce dont elle a besoin. Not even a "Bonjour, mon coeur" text message. I know Sundays are busy for him, but still. My pride's all twisted up, so I don't want to message him first.

It scares me because he's not just my fiancée. He's my safety-net.

Pierre made me learn to trust and love again. He's made me realize that there is a whole world beyond Vancouver, that there are more people beyond my small social circle back at home. Being in Paris gave me the freedom and independence I never knew I needed. It was healthy. And, Pierre was there with me every step and blinking-moment.

He also made me see that I couldn't define my future steps based on my step-father's verbal and physical anger.

My mother's bxstard of an ex-husband was locked up in jail, but I'd been afraid of my own shadow throughout senior year of high school. My friends kept telling me I wasn't myself. But it was hard to feel like yourself when you were still living in the same place where you'd felt those physical hits and those insults slicing you like knives.

Sometimes I think I took my first real breath when I landed in France. Everything was different. No one knew me, and I didn't know anyone.

I didn't even have a moment to feel alone or scared because I'd stumbled upon Pierre Aguillard as fast as lightning before the clap of thunder.

I love him, and he's asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. Who cares if this is a rough patch; he's my happy-ending, right? Then why isn't he answering to my texts like a proper happy-ending? I need my happy-ending to give me a reply ASAP.

I don't know if I can wait until Christmas to see him.

"Cheryl...Bitch. You good?" Tara insists again.

A smile twitches my mouth. I should sit her down soon and tell her the truth. Pierre's right. Telling people doesn't mean I'm jinxing our future. He knows I think everything good in my life comes to an end because of some unknown reason. He also knows he's right...Spreading my happiness with others doesn't mean I'm jeopardizing us. And I am tired of always lying to my friends, of always leaving the beautiful ring he gave me in it's velvet box like it's just a simple souvenir and not a symbol of us.

"Yes, bitch," I say back. "I'm good."

"Then why is your face puckered? You've been frowning ever since I came to pick you up."

"Tara, are you enjoying your treat?"

She lifts a spoonful of frozen yogurt and shoves it in her mouth like a pig. "Mhmmm."

"Then shut up and mind your own business," I tease. "I'm just tired. I'm allowed to sit quiet, no?"

"Mkayy. If you say so. I'm still calling bullshit."

Thank God that her favorite song comes on the radio, because that diverts her attention and she starts belting out really bad vocals.

I laugh at her as I unlock my phone to send out a text message to Ethan Taylor, my cousin Sharlene's boyfriend. He's friends with Pierre. Good friends, actually, since his mother's French and practically forced him to attend the same boarding school as my fiancée.

His reply is almost instantaneous.

All right. So, it's not just me he's being distant with. Not that it helps my case, but it definitely answers some thing.

He sends me the water drops emoji, because he's so mature.

"What's that all about?" Tara demands.

"Nothing. Just asking Ethan something."

"OH MY GOD. Monsieur Taylor, you mean?" she pretends to fan herself. Ethan or Monsieur Taylor, as Tara calls him, is a brilliant and filthy rich ladies' man and she's got a huge crush on him, despite the fact that he and my cousin have been dating for a few years now.

"Yup."

"I just want you to know that my wallpaper is actually him in that ad he recently did with Calvin Klein. He's such a dream."

"My god. You're a freak, Tara," I laugh as she parks her car haphazardly.

"You think they're going to break up anytime soon? I'm rich as well, so our family will get along, you know? Pass him my number when Sharlene is through with him."

I smirk. "Yeah, right. They're never going to break up."

She sighs sadly while looking up at her car ceiling, unbuckling her seatbelt. "A girl can hope, I guess. At least I have Gabe to look forward, too."

Just as I'm about to get out of her car, we go from being fashionably late to a$shole late. "Ugh, who's calling? Oli's going to be annoyed we're not inside yet." A selfie of Natalie and me flashes on my screen. She's video-calling me. "Holy, shit! It's Nat!"

I answer just as Tara's mouth drops open and she screeches. "NATTTTT."

Natalie's smile is warm and all home as she hollers back, "Hey, BITCHES! Guess what?"

* * *

I forgot how packed Danny's Grill is...basically every night, regardless of the day in the week.

Tara and I twine our arms together to brace against the bustling bodies. People swaying to R&B music surround us, and we thread through the crowd with difficulty.

"Um, Cher," Tara leans down and mumbles in my ear. "I see the boys, but...Trent's looking at you really intensely."

True enough, my gaze rises and connects with Trent, who's sitting on one of the stools by the bar, sandwiched between Oliver and Jared.

"Man. He really looks like Mr. Reynolds the older he gets," Tara intones. It's true; Trent's dad was a hot Spanish DILF that Tara, Teagan and I used to obsess about as young girls.

I go a little dry-mouthed when I look at him.

Trent's style is a bit more jagged compared to high school. Back then he was always put together, his fauxhawk cropped perfectly, his football jersey with no creases, and quintessential jeans and white sneakers.

Now he's wearing black boots with black ripped jeans. His white t-shirt is creased, and his leather jacket is well-worn. Moreover, I think I see a hint of black suspenders. The grey beanie I like a little too much sits on top of his dark brown shaggy hair as a cover up.

The best part? Trent's always been kind of unaware of his good looks. He was never the kind of guy who'd spent hours in front of a mirror, gelling his hair to perfection. He just seemed to make everything work for him with the bare minimum amount of effort.

It's crazy what a splitting image he is of his father. While he's got his mom's eyes, his caramel-skin, that chiseled jawline and that tall body are all courtesy of Omero Reynolds.

And Tara's absolutely correct – she usually is. Trent's giving me the kind of look that makes my stomach flip and gives birth to a thousand butterflies.

When I see him rise from his position with a purposeful glimmer in his eyes that I know is directed at me, I turn to Tara and say, "I'm going to get a drink; I'll meet with you in a few."

I slowly and politely make my way to the bar, where I order myself a Malibu and sprite.

It doesn't take long – I feel Trent's warm hands bracketing my hips and pulling me back until I'm hit with a scent of his cologne and my skin breaks out in goosebumps.

The rest of our exchange has me teetering on the brink of you're-loosing-it-Cher.

* * *

"What was all that about?" Inga asks me as she sips her cosmo.

Tara bends forward to take a shot and we stare at her as she unceremoniously flashes her a$s to our side of the bar. I have no doubt she's going to win this match of billiard against Inga's friends.

"What are you talking about?" I ask her quietly. From the corner of my eye, I see Trent eyeing me, even though he is talking to Oliver.

Inga covers her mouth and gives a small giggle. This is her third cosmo and she's probably tipsy. "You and Trenton?" her slight Russian accent plays on her tongue. "You guys were very close over there."

I pretend I don't know what she's talking about. I chew some ice to help with the wave of heat climbing my face. "Of course, we are. I've known Trent practically my whole life. We're close."

I'm playing dumb.

She sees right through it. "That's' not what I was talking about, Cheryl."

"Then what do you mean?"

Inga's silver eyes pierce through a barrier and my shoulders deflate, feeling like a naughty kid caught stealing the last cookie from the cookie jar.

"You know what I'm talking about..." she tucks her platinum blonde hair behind her ears and gives me a sloppy-tipsy smile.

When I don't say a word, she clears her throat a little bit and wobbles as she sets her glass down. Oliver jerks from his recline against the wall, as if he can catch her from all those meters away. I help steady her. "Oliver and I started off as friends, too, you know. I'm just saying..."

Hoping that she won't remember this tomorrow, I tell her a bit meekly, "Inga, I know what you're talking about. I just can't let my train of thought head over there."

Trent and I are grown-a$s adults who can acknowledge the shift between us. When we were younger teens, about 14 and 15, the chemistry was always there, but so was his love for Rose. I gave up on Trent years ago, and I moved on to other things and another guy.

But this between us, after the last two years, feels like a raging inferno.

It's as if we're making up for lost time.

I'm not coy. Tara, Teagan and Nat always told me they felt what Trent and I could never convey between us. It was a long tug-of-war for years. Sometimes he'd smile a little too much at me when we'd be hanging out at school. Often times he'd curve those muscular arms around my shoulder during lunch time as I spoke to him, leaning down to give me his full attention. Other times his jabs were more flirtatious when it was just him and I, and sometimes I responded back with equal fervour.

Then I took too long to get off my a$s and watched as he fell in love with my ex-best friend.

Now that he's no longer with Rose...It feels like there's more room for us to breathe and all the unspoken things we couldn't say to one another years ago.

I know our friendship is back – to be honest, we never lost that between us – but it's more than that.

There's tension of the sexual kind that's returned, and I know it's inevitable. There's usually some of that in a girl and boy's friendship, right? But I thought we were passed that stage, dammit. We're not teenagers with skyrocketing hormones, so why does it feel so much more than before?

Now he flirts with me and I flirt back. He throws little jabs and I catch them, before curving them back at him. I see him getting worked up when he sees me with other guys and I get it because I used to feel that way when I was sixteen, burning on the inside when I'd see other girls hanging off him. Yet I never said a word.

He was my first crush, my first love. I've moved past that...so why are those moments slowly trickling back between us, opening mixed emotions that are better locked up?

"Just think about what I'm saying," Inga slurs, before huffing a breath and leaning against the pool table. She grabs her head with a light smile. "I think I'm drunk."

I'm about to say, 'Yes, you are', when Oliver and Trent start making their way towards us.

Oliver engulfs Inga in his arms and leads her through the flurry of people, probably to the bathroom so she can puke.

I'm hyperaware of Trent next to me, staring me down with his soft gaze. "Hey."

I crane my neck to look at him. "Hey."

"There's a stunning girl in the bar and I can't take my eyes off of her."

There goes my heart, beating patterns it has no business learning. I feel it tattooing against my chest. "That line was so bad, I'm temped to walk away."

"Yet you're still standing in front of me in that incredibly tight dress and high boots."

My pulse is escalating, and I don't know what to do with myself. My toes curl and swallowing is difficult.

As if realizing he said to much, he chooses to tilt his head towards the makeshift dancefloor. "You want to dance, Cher?"

Those words are uttered in the utmost gentle manner. Trent extends a hand my way, giving me no choice but to take it.

I bite my lip and his eyes track the motion with something warm in his eyes. I'm in trouble, I think to myself.

"You know I can never say no a Beyoncé song." Then I give my hand to the boy who gave me my first wet dream at fourteen, and he pulls me along the dancefloor with that husky laugh I'm beginning to love.

* * *

Three songs later and Trent spins me around to Aaliyah's melodious voice. He catches me mid-whirl by the waist and I laugh as I fall against him.

My bare arms go around his shoulders and our foreheads knock lightly. I'm too caught up in the moment and feeling high on something I can't describe.

Trent made it a point to take off our jackets somewhere between Beyoncé's Rocket, since it got hot in the pub, after giving me this filthy and up-to-no-good smirk.

We're careful as we sway, not to bump into other bodies around us. "I forgot you knew how to dance," I whisper to him.

He angles his head down to better here my words, then nods. "My mom was crazy when we were younger, remember?"

I look up into his baby blues. "She made you take ballet, right?"

Trent grins away. "Yeah, then my dad forced Nat and I into Latin dancing."

"Well it definitely paid off." I remember when Trent needed help rehearsing for his big finale and basically begged me to help him practice. I was twelve and we fumbled in his basement, me mostly laughing at the costume he had to wear during his performance and him burning as bright as a beetroot over the fact that he had two left feet.

"You like my moves, sweetheart?"

I arch an eyebrow when his hands start drifting lower to my a$s, away from the platonic zone they were in before. "Hands off, Trenton."

He gives a sheepish pout and looks away as we continue to rock to the beat.

"Would you ever consider taking salsa classes again?" I ask after a moment of peace, trying not to laugh.

"Depends. Would you be my partner?"

"Never."

"Then no. I'm content playing football. That's how I like to stay in shape."

Football did him good, that's for sure. His muscles are perfectly honed from years of playing and I love that he's not too bulky and not too lean in my arms.

And I like that fact a little too much than I should.

"I miss going out to bars with my friends and just dancing." I sigh. Trent smiles that smile that's so heart melting and spins me around twice, before catching me. Closer this time. I feel the full force of those hard planes against my body and I love how those contours fit mine. "I haven't done that in so long."

He palms my shoulder blades until we're plastered to one another, swaying to the beat. Because I'm wearing heels, he can comfortably place his stubbly cheek against mine without having to bend low to reach me.

"You love dancing; how is that possible?"

"Hmm. I don't know. I just drank a lot in Paris, but I never really went out dancing that much."

My fingers delve into his hair at the nape of his neck and his slide lower and lower, until they're resting in the curve of my waist. I teasingly push off his beanie and throw it to a nearby chair, where it falls with the rest of our jackets.

Trent's warmth seeps into me and, oddly enough, I find myself shuddering.

"Were there no nice boys in Paris to take my Cherrycake out?" he whispers into my ear.

Two words have me going cold. Boys and Paris.

I suck in a deep breath and remember Pierre and remember how closely Trent and I are standing. I remember how this isn't okay.

Best friend or not, I can't be adding fuel to the fire.

As gently as I possibly can, I break away from Trent. He looks at me a little questioningly and, dare I say, vulnerably, when I push at his shoulders, so he can drop his hands from where only Pierre's should be.

"Cher?" he wonders.

I notice under the light of the candelabra that his face is a little flustered, but mine is probably worse. I've only had two glasses of Malibu and Sprite and maybe he's had more. Or, maybe, he's had less.

In any case, that flush might have been caused by slight intoxication, the heat of the dancefloor, or simply from the electrifying charge that's pulsing between us right now.

"I need to pee," I croak. "I drank a few so...I'll be right back, okay?"

His eyebrows knit together and reaches out for me. "You good, babe? Should I get one of the girls to go with you?"

But I'm already backing away. "No. I'm good. Just stay put!"

I fvcking gun it for the girl's bathroom.

* * *

It's a blessing in disguise that there's no line up for the bathroom, a rare fit for this overcrowded place.

As far as I know, I'm alone in here. I hum to myself as I wash my hands, then dry them off quickly.

However, I'm not expecting to scream bloody murder when the girls bathroom door swings open and a mildly irked Jared steps through, his jaw clenched tight.

"Holy fvck! You scared me." I press my now dry hand to my chest, right on top of my heart.

Jared crosses his arms and leans against the door, preventing anyone from entering. Or from leaving, I guess.

"Um, Jared. This is the girls bathroom."

"I know," he says in his deep baritone, his annoyance shining in his grey eyes. "We need to talk, Cheryl."