Chapter Eight
Eight
Scarlett
Letting a hockey player choose my date has got to be a new low for me.
But even today I had to commemorate my first real date by stopping by Porter’s first. The strip of photos in my pocket reflects the same fake smile I’m wearing now as I count the minutes he’s late in a booth at Lola’s Diner.
When Kian found this guy from all the swiping he was doing at our last tutoring session, he was sure this was the perfect one.
If the guy actually shows up.
When the server comes over for the second time, she gives me a sympathetic smile. “You sure you don’t want to order?”
“Yup, just waiting for someone,” I say once again, starting to sweat in my thick sweater.
The server doesn’t seem to believe that, but she roller-skates away. I look around the diner, still wondering why this was the ideal first date location, according to the dating wiz Kian. When I think of him, I pull out my phone.
Scarlett: If I get stood up, you should sleep with one eye open tonight.
Kian: Bold of you to assume I don’t already sleep that way. I have a lot of enemies.
Kian: And he won’t stand you up, Scarlett.
Scarlett: You sound so sure, yet it’s been ten minutes and nada.
Kian doesn’t answer straightaway, and before I can text him again, I hear my name. “Scarlett?”
“Jake? Hi!” I awkwardly slip out of the booth to give him a one-armed hug, completely missing the hand he has outstretched for me to shake.
Jake has curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a decent jawline. No tattoos. He wouldn’t fit the bill for Kian’s type.
I regret wearing this outfit the moment I stand to greet Jake.
My jeans cling to my ass, wrapping around my thick thighs and flaring out at the bottom, and I’d prefer to hide in baggy sweats.
But I couldn’t show up to this date in a sweat suit or Kian would accuse me of trying to sabotage it.
On top of that, the only clean top left in my closet was a red tank top, and wearing it alone would’ve been too much for anyone, not just me and my uncooperative boobs.
So I buttoned up a thick gray sweater that Sierra knit me, hoping its plainness would swallow me whole.
Sometimes I miss being that bright-eyed freshman who stumbled into frat parties, dressing however I wanted because everything was new and unshaped.
We’re barely ten minutes into the date when Jake tells me he’s dating to marry. A reasonable need I suppose, but that’s not something I’d be thinking about in college.
The server takes our order and skates away. “Do you have any pets?” I ask him, hoping I’m steering away from making any life plans with the guy.
“Two dogs,” he says. “Do you want kids?”
Smooth segue, Jake. I’m twenty-one, and kids haven’t crossed my mind, unless we’re talking about a Plan B. The thought makes me itch, and I feel the lie concocting.
But before I can speak, my gaze catches on a guy walking past our table, tall, big broad shoulders, hoodie pulled low over his head, and dark jeans.
“Scarlett?” Jake says.
I turn to my date again. I nearly tell him to shut up so I can scrutinize the guy at the register. He looks oddly familiar, and if he’s someone I hooked up with, I might need to duck underneath this table.
“Did my question make you uncomfortable?”
“Huh? Oh, no. I’m totally for that. Give me a whole football field’s worth of those little rug rats.” If I were focused, I’d give a normal response, but then the guy at the register moves.
My replies to Jake’s questions are a series of yeses and nos, with a few depends here and there. I’ve already lost interest, and I think it’s got something to do with his questions always somehow sliding toward marriage.
Am I the problem?
Then there’s a sharp clatter of utensils and a low, startled “Oh shit” that cuts through the noise of the diner.
My head turns toward the table diagonal from our booth, where a guy in a hoodie, sitting alone, pretends to study the world’s biggest menu.
When he leans down to grab the fallen fork, I catch the tattoos inked across his forearm, curling out from under his sleeve.
And when he straightens, the oversize sunglasses do a terrible job of hiding exactly who he is.
You have got to be kidding me.
Kian Ishida peeks over his menu. My gaze better be burning holes into his head, because he’s not looking my way, and he’s got a hand covering the side of his face now.
Jake is oblivious to my sudden realization as he continues to ask questions, such as if I plan on staying in Hartford forever like him. Leaving has always been the one promise I made to myself. There is nothing here I want to carry with me, only memories I have been aching to shake off.
“It depends.” But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep pretending to be the girl he wants, not even for one date.
As if on cue, my phone rings. I give Jake an apologetic smile and answer.
“He’s perfect, right?” Kian’s voice comes through my phone from literally ten feet away. “Maybe a little nerdy, but that’s your thing, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. You’re a peach for this. I owe you big-time,” I say, my teeth clenched under a plastic smile.
“Really?” There’s a flicker of boyish hope in his voice.
“Oh, totally,” I murmur. “Sleep with one eye open.”
A pause stretches. Then his frown cuts straight through the line. “Wait. Was that sarcasm?”
I’m done. Done with this whole game, done with his lurking in the background. “Oh my God. Where are you?” I practically screech, my voice pitching up with fake panic.
“Scar…what are you doing?” Kian asks.
I slap a hand over my mouth. “You’re kidding! I’ll be there right away.”
“Scarlett. You can’t just—”
I hang up before he can finish. Jake is watching me with surprise when I mutter that I have to leave, slide out of the booth, and push through the front door without looking back.
My heels strike a quick, sharp rhythm against the sidewalk until I reach the corner where my Uber dropped me off.
I am halfway across the cobblestone street when I hear my name.
Footsteps follow close behind me, heavier than mine and impossible to ignore. I don’t have to turn around to know who it is.
Kian’s hand closes around my elbow. “What was that?”
I spin to face him. “You’re asking me? What about you, Mr. Incognito?” I pull his stupid sunglasses off his face. “I told you you didn’t need to come.”
“He was ten minutes late.” Kian’s jaw ticks. “I wasn’t going to let you sit there alone.”
I roll my eyes, turning to go, but his grip stays firm.
“Did he say something to you? Is that why you left? Because I’ll go back in there and—”
“And what? Beat him up because he actually has his life together and wants to find a girl who isn’t like me at all?”
He watches me quietly.
I keep my tears at bay. “You know how shitty it is to have to sit there and realize that I’m the one who’s the problem? That wanting marriage and kids—something stable, a commitment—makes me want to crawl into a hole.”
“That’s not true—”
“It’s like this reputation I’m forcing you to help me clean up isn’t actually wrong at all. I built it because I am it. I’m just a one-night stand.”
I shake my head when he starts to speak, but he lifts my chin, then slowly cups my face as if waiting for me to pull away. I don’t.
“Scar, you’re not just anything. What someone else wants doesn’t have to make you feel like shit about your life.”
“Says the guy who only does commitment. What makes you an expert?”
“I’ve been in all kinds of relationships. Far more complicated than you’d imagine.”
“Like what? I’m sure you had a high school girlfriend you were going to marry until you had to separate because of college or something.”
“Actually, it would be my stalker from freshman year.”
My mouth snaps shut.
“Not my best moment, but Tabitha was a sweet girl. She just wanted someone who cared for her, and I wanted to do the caring. It worked for us until she got a little obsessive and started terrorizing my roommates.”
“That’s scary, Kian. I’m sorry—”
He shakes his head. “Is it bad that I still sympathize with her? She used to come around every so often, sending cakes to the house and leaving creepy letters for me, but each time it just made me feel shitty that I couldn’t help her.”
“That’s not your responsibility. She invaded your privacy and your safety. You don’t owe her anything.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he says. “But what I’m trying to say is that I get that commitment is hard. I don’t expect people to want that when they haven’t had good examples of it.”
“Nobody looks at me and thinks about commitment. That’s who I am, it’s who I’ve always been, and I accept that. God, it makes me feel so stupid for dressing like this.”
Kian’s gaze catches on my outfit—black jeans, thick gray sweater. “Like what?”
“Modest! He could probably see right through me.”
He stares down at me, confused. “You dressed like this for him?”
“Oh come on, it’s not exactly a secret.” I gesture to my body. He looks at me, like really looks at me. I kind of regret putting myself under this spotlight when a shiver runs down my spine.
“I don’t understand.”
I close my eyes for a split second. “Kian, if you’re helping me with my reputation, you have to realize I can’t dress the way I normally would. If I put my body on display, then all you’re doing won’t matter. They’ll still see me like the girl from sophomore year.”
Kian’s gaze flicks between my eyes, I see the tiniest crinkle between his brows when he seems to get it. But then he steps closer, and there’s a dark look in his eyes that makes my heart pound faster.
“Scar…Please tell me you didn’t just say what I think you said.”
“What?”
“About your body. That you don’t dress how you want because people will talk.”
“Oh.” My brows furrow at his distress. “Uh, yeah, well, it’s true.”
“Okay, look, I should probably just shut up because I have no clue the things you go through, but I can’t let you cater to that.
Your clothes don’t matter. They never have.
By doing this”—he gestures to me—“wearing something you don’t want to, you’re giving them the power.
And I know that’s the last thing you want. ”
“I don’t really have a choice.”
“But you do!” He shakes his head. “Okay, answer me one thing. Do you like your outfit? And I don’t mean with the sweater that you’re clearly burning up in.”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel comfortable in it?”
I hesitate.
“Don’t think about other people. Think about you.”
“Yes. Yeah, I do,” I confirm.
“Okay.” He approaches me, eyeing my sweater. “Can I?”
I step back, and that seems to make Kian take one back immediately but I don’t let him. “Yes.”
His gaze settles on me for a beat, making sure before his knuckles dust over my collarbone.
Kian carefully moves my hair back, then slowly undoes the first button, not taking his eyes off mine.
My chest is heaving, and I know I’m wearing something underneath, but God, it feels like he’s unveiling my naked body.
One time during freshman year, one of my professors stopped me during a tutorial with a look of sympathy in her eyes and said, “Stress eating for exams?” I spent the rest of that week eating broccoli and spinach. So now, as Kian continues, I try to cling on to his words and not that memory.
“When you start allowing other people to dictate your actions…that’s when you start to lose your power,” he says.
“You can dress how you want.” Another button and my cleavage comes into view.
“Do whatever you want, and you’d still deserve the same respect as anyone else.
” Kian doesn’t even blink as he works his way down to the last button effortlessly.
He pulls my sweater off my shoulders, skimming the bare skin with his warm fingers and making me almost flinch from the contact.
He holds my sweater and takes a step back. “You’re beautiful, Scarlett. Just as you are.”
When he steps away, it feels like he’s not only taken my sweater, but my breath too.
I gesture back to the parking lot. “I should go. That date cut into my studying time.”
Kian laughs, and I give him a quick side hug, short and abrupt and I’m not even sure why I’ve done it. When I go to pull away, he doesn’t let me. He smiles brightly, like he didn’t expect the hug but now that he’s got it, there’s no way he’s going to let me brush it away like nothing.
“Six seconds,” he says.
“What?”
“If you want a hug, it’s gotta be a whole six seconds. I don’t do whatever that was.”
I’m so caught off guard by the specific time requirement that I don’t protest when he pulls me in. It’s like someone’s pressed down the final puzzle piece in an impossible picture.
“Why six?” I ask when my head connects with his chest.
The exhale from my body is automatic, and the yawn that splits my thoughts has me placing a hand over my mouth. I need to get a grip.
“That’s when your body releases oxytocin and you get the full benefit of a hug.”
I’m sure my body was releasing those hormones before I even touched him. His presence alone is a hit of oxytocin. There’s so much weighing on me, but this touch feels so solid, it’d be unfair to not surrender to it.
I’m not sure if he’s counting in his head but he releases me just when another yawn escapes.
“See,” he says. “That yawn right there means it worked.”
“Look at you quoting research papers. I guess the studying is paying off, huh?”
He chuckles. “Best tutor in town.”