Chapter 13 #2
“No!” Owen’s protest is high-pitched. “I mean”—he offers an apologetic smile—“don’t end your fun because of me.
You two, stay. Enjoy your ice cream.” He scoops up the leftover biscuits and his ice cream.
“Can you walk Georgia home? It’s not far and I know she doesn’t need anyone, but I’d feel better. ”
“Of course.”
“Sorry, Georgia.” The twitch of his lips telegraphs that he’s only sorry-ish.
It’s clear he’s playing matchmaker. Seriously, how much of my bestie did I use to inspire his character?
Shaking his head, Davis watches as Owen leaves. “You have a friend named Owen who is a baker?” It’s more accusation than question.
“Yep.”
“The resemblance is uncanny.” He nibbles on the corner of his mouth.
“Yep.” Shifting in my seat, I spoon up some ice cream.
“Did you base the character on him?” he asks, sliding onto the bench across from me.
“On my best friend Hope.”
“He’s so much like the character.” He clicks his tongue twice.
“You want to try this?” I hold up my dish as a distraction.
As much as I tell fictional stories in my books, lying isn’t my forte.
Each time I do, the knot in my stomach coils tight, causing a queasy ache.
Avoiding the topic is preferable. Though it’s just a form of a lie.
It’s more like lying lite. Like diet soda, it leaves the same artificial taste in my mouth, but without the unwanted calories.
He spoons up some of my ice cream and some of his own on the same spoon. “So good,” he moans after his first lick.
“Yeah?” I do the same with his and mine. “Oh god! Why haven’t I done this before? Next time a scoop of each.”
“Agreed.” He spoons up another bite.
Next time? Those two words thrum through me with the promise of something I shouldn’t have, but I crave anyway. Five days ago, I sat across from Davis at Fisher’s Landing, scoffing at the idea of a next time with him, but here I am daydreaming about it.
“Hope is the inspiration for Owen Baker?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Chuckling, I scoop up another bite. “I didn’t realize how much of an inspiration until recently.”
“Do you pull a lot from your life?”
“Bits and pieces. Most writers cannibalize their lives just a bit. But at the end of the day, it’s fiction.”
“Will our not-so-meet/cute make it into one of your books?” he teases.
“Maybe.” With a bat of my lashes, I offer a cheeky smile.
He leans back and his boyish grin erupts, every feature bright with playfulness. “It would be the perfect start for the female main character to be rescued from Mr. Foot-in-His-Mouth by her Mr. Right . The perfect meet-cute.”
“Yeah…” I sigh, causing him to arch one brow. “I already had that meet/cute in real life.” I rake my teeth against my bottom lip, weighing how much to tell him.
The two half-eaten ice cream dishes that we’re sharing teeter us between friendship and something more. Opening my emotional baggage from past relationships would cannonball us into date territory, but the earnest expression covering his face coaxes me on.
“My ex, Will. That’s how we met,” I say, dragging my spoon through my ice cream.
“Lena, my cousin, Hope, and I were inseparable growing up and that extended into our twenties. The three of us were at a bar. I went to get us more drinks, and this guy who had been hitting on me most of the night got extra pushy?—”
“How?”
“He grabbed my ass.”
My attention moves to Davis, his fingers curled around the table’s edge, and an equally sharp tic tightens his jaw. Anger shadows his bright expression.
“He didn’t hurt me.” I reach over and squeeze his forearm, glad when his rigid muscles relax.
“I slapped his hand away. Just as I spun to tell him to fuck off, Will stepped in. After he and his friends escorted Mr. Handsy out, Will sent over a round of drinks for us to make up for the failing of his sex.” I roll my eyes.
“At twenty-two, I thought it was about the swooniest thing.”
“How long did you date?”
“Five years.”
“That’s a long time. Were you in love?”
“ I was,” I say.
“Just you?” His brow puckers.
“Just me.”
He nods. “What happened?”
“The CliffsNotes version?”
He threads our fingers. “Whatever version you want to share.”
His palm’s warmth eases the tension within me about telling this story.
I’m not someone who doesn’t share myself with others.
I’m just selective with whom I open up fully.
Most people just get pieces of what I want to share with them.
For a moment, I think of Owen talking about being a portion or a part of someone’s life, and I get it.
With portions, you only share some things, with someone who is part of your life, you share everything.
It's a dangerous game I’m playing, and I know it.
Still, I want to share these things. With Davis, I don’t sense the need to hide portions of myself.
To only worry about his feelings, his wants.
It’s a little addicting and terrifying to be comfortable enough to just exist without worrying about managing.
“From the moment I met Will I thought he was it… I thought we were so happy. Five years ago, we even planned to move in together. Three days before that, he broke up with me in a text message.” Eyes closed, that last text exchange flashes in my memory.
“A fucking text message?” Davis seethes.
I squeeze his hand in mine. “ He thought that not doing it in person would save me from the embarrassment of my reaction in front of him. Turns out he’d been hooking up with my cousin Lena on-and-off for the last three years of our relationship.
Of course, she claims they were only drunken kisses.
Nothing more. But the moment Lena broke up with her boyfriend, Will showed up at her place to console her.
She says one thing led to another, and he admitted he’d been in love with her for most of our relationship.
That—” my voice wobbles. “It had been her he’d noticed at the bar that night, but she’d had a boyfriend at the time. ”
“You were inseparable since you were girls,” he almost parrots my words.
“I haven’t spoken to her since she came to my apartment a month after Will dumped me to confess everything.” I blink, damming up the threatening tears.
Despite the far too many tears already shed, their betrayal always coaxes more. Two people I loved lied to me. They broke my trust, making me question if they ever loved me. Making me question myself.
“Next Saturday will be the first time in five years that I’ll be in the same room with Lena and Will.” I swallow down the emotions tangled in my throat.
“Why will you be in a room with them?”
“They’re getting married,” I say quietly. An acidic taste burns my throat.
“Why put yourself through that?” He clicks his tongue.
“For my mom.”
“She shouldn’t ask that of you.” The dark clouds in his expression contrast with the soft, steady timbre of his voice.
“She hasn’t.”
“Then why?”
“Because my mom is the only mother Lena has ever known, and Lena is the last remaining tie to my mom’s sister. My aunt died when Lena was a toddler, and my mom stepped in to help my uncle raise her.”
Mouth dragging into a frown, the storminess in his eyes dulls, and his shoulders slump. His demeanor mirrors the resignation that sighs within me over this situation.
It may hurt. It may not make sense to anyone else. But there are times we just have to do things for the sake of others, even if they don’t ask us to do it.
“It will be fine.”
“For everyone else, but what about you?” His gaze links with mine, causing an unsteady thump-thump in my chest.
“It will be fine,” I repeat, ignoring the twinge in my heart.
“They sell pints here.”
“What?” A nervous laugh falls out of me with his abrupt topic change.
He tips his head toward the glass door freezers along the parlor’s wall. “I’ll get an assortment of pints, and we can do a TNG marathon after the wedding.”
“You don’t have to.” I pull my hand from his and pick up my spoon.
“I want to.”
I clear my throat. “Sorry for just emotionally dumping on you.”
He picks up his spoon. “I did it last time, so it was your turn.”
“Perhaps, we should switch to something more fun.” I tap my fingernails against the tabletop. “Favorite TNG episode?”
“Easy—” A lopsided grin slants his mouth. “ Rascals .”
“The one where Picard, Guinan, and others are transformed back into children after the transporter malfunctions?”
He nods.
“That’s my favorite, too!” I bounce in my seat.
“Favorite movie?” He grins.
We continue like that throughout the remainder of our ice cream and our walk home. Taking turns asking questions, trading answers. Some silly, like what our favorite board games are; mine, Scrabble, and his, Monopoly . Others more serious, like who our favorite person is; mine, Hope, and his, Doc.
We get so lost in our little game that I walk past my house. Four blocks. Embarrassment flushes my cheeks when the realization hits me, but he says nothing. He just falls into step once I turn us back toward my place.
“Favorite ice cream?” I ask, walking up the sidewalk to the house’s back gate, the crickets’ melody humming in the night air.
“Cookies and cream,” he says.
Face scrunched, I twist to face him. “Why’d you get chocolate?”
“I like chocolate.”
“But it’s not your favorite.” I arch a brow.
“Cookies and cream isn’t in the GF section.”
I fiddle with my dress. “You don’t have to only eat GF around me. It’s not necessary. I can be around it. I just can’t have it.”
“I know.” Clicking his tongue, he shuffles his feet, the shopping bag in his hand rustling. “You can be around it, but you can’t have it. You also can’t be kissed by someone who has just had it. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“And you want to kiss me.” My simple declaration is breathless.
“So much.” He steps close, a charge ignites in the narrowing space between us. “And I think you want to kiss me, too.”
“You do?” The question is less taunt and more panted submission to his accusation.