Chapter 2
Chapter Two
CHUG, CHUG, CHUG
Gretchen
I’ve avoided the city since Drew and Reagan’s wedding. Chicago’s not small, but even the microscopic chance of running into a certain someone has been enough to keep me away.
While I was in college, it was easy to keep my distance. I’d fly into O’Hare, head straight to Bloomington, and stay there until my parents drove me back to the airport. But I’ve graduated now. No matter how much I want to, I can’t avoid the city forever.
Alas, I’m here with a smile on my face, trying not to let the paranoia of barreling into his chest around the next corner consume me whole.
Skyscrapers tower over the city streets below. The familiar hum of the hustle and bustle along the sidewalks, commerce everywhere, lives under my skin. I’ve always loved Chicago. But now it only reminds me of Manhattan. A place I’m ready to return to as soon as possible.
After a brief walk from the parking garage, we make it to the upscale steakhouse on the Magnificent Mile where Drew and Reagan are already seated.
Hugs are exchanged all around before we sit.
As I take the seat next to Mom, I notice two empty seats across the table, leather-bound menus resting atop their pristine place settings.
To nobody in particular, I ask, “Is somebody else coming?”
The answer I expect is something along the lines of they’re extra menus or the hostess only had a 7-top available.
“I invited Connor and Lauren,” Drew replies, tone casual.
My stomach sinks. Anxiety settles at the back of my throat and my chest pulls tight. I have so many questions.
After three years of silence, he’s gonna show up just like that? Tonight? Who’s Lauren? His girlfriend, obviously. There’s no way he’s still single at twenty-eight.
Masking my shock with indifference, I say, “I didn’t realize you guys still talked.”
Instantly, I know it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said because my lack of knowledge as to the status of Connor and Drew’s friendship is in direct proportion to the number of times I’ve inquired about Connor over the past three years. Zero .
“What?” Drew asks incredulously. “We’ve been best friends since we were fifteen and he was the Best Man in my wedding. Of course we still talk. ”
There’s no time to form a reply because that’s when I see them—two figures approaching the table in my peripheral vision.
While the rest of the table moves to welcome the new arrivals, I grab my water glass and chug it down, praying for the liquid cascading down my throat to sweep me out to Lake Michigan.
The water might be a little cold, but it’s better than here.
“Paul, Kelly, this is Lauren,” Connor says of the woman at his side. I don’t hear Lauren—I don’t even see her—because… his voice. The depth with its smooth, yet rough, timbre that has only improved with age, has now taken up rent-free residence in my head. Again.
Chug, chug, chug.
I take him in over the rim of my water glass. He looks exactly the same as the day he left me alone on that balcony. It’s infuriating. Devastating.
At just over six feet, he’s not too tall.
Still built like the teenage quarterback he was for so many years, he’s long, toned and lean with enough muscle underneath his navy dress shirt to pull the fabric taut across his pecs and shoulders.
That hair that’s dirty and blonde in all the right ways—he’s grown it out some, but the longer on top, shorter on the sides look works.
The scruff along his jaw is that sexy in-between kind that I want to drag my fingers through.
His arctic blue eyes are as hypnotizing as they were looking back at me through a phone screen my freshman year of college. The same eyes that were pure warmth and friendship the day I met him on my back porch thirteen years ago.
I’m locked in the swirl of them before I realize he’s staring at me, too.
His expression is strained, like the mountain of words unspoken, the memory of how things ended—all of it hangs on a clothesline tethered between our chests.
I slap that thought away because it can’t be true.
He’s with Lauren now. If he’s tense, it’s because this is awkward.
So awkward.
He rounds the table as his girlfriend is swept up in conversation with my parents. The thirty-seven seconds I was given to prepare for this was not enough. He claps Drew on the back and drops a peck on Reagan’s cheek. Before I know it, I’m on my feet, standing toe to toe with Connor Vining.
The hesitation lasts a fraction of a second—or maybe I imagined it—before he pulls me in to his chest, arms wrapped around my waist. With nowhere else for my arms to go, they lock around his neck.
He squeezes me close and for a brief, beautiful, fleeting moment, the past is forgotten and I melt into him.
The exhale of relief I hear could be mine…or maybe it’s his.
“Congratulations, Gretch,” he breathes. The weight of his head against mine, the sincerity of his whispered words only meant for my ears, leaves me discombobulated.
When we step back, I can’t bear to look at him.
With the loss of contact comes the remembrance of everything that happened and I’m uneasy all over again .
The cumbersome silence between us is interrupted when Lauren positions herself back at Connor’s side.
She extends her hand to me and I offer mine.
I see her lips move, but I’m not listening.
How can I when I’m still off-kilter from the feeling of Connor’s arms wrapped around me?
Images of his hands frantically moving down my chest and up my thigh flood my mind.
I muster up a genuine -ish smile and enough composure to spit out, “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
The conversation up until the appetizers arrive sounds like one big whir in my ears. However, I manage to catch a few key points that are particularly painful: Connor and Lauren met at work, her dad is their boss and the two of them double date with Drew and Reagan…a lot.
Every effort I’ve made over the last three years to avoid the subject of Connor—to never ask Drew about him for fear of the truth of what happened between us being written plain as day across my face—was a mistake.
A big, huge mistake. I should have asked all the questions.
If I had, maybe I wouldn’t feel two inches tall right now.
Between the three happy couples at the table, the conversation moves along fine without me. I try to pretend he’s not here, but it’s a wasted effort.
Chancing glances in his direction between the five pieces of bread and three glasses of water I’ve consumed wouldn’t be so embarrassing if his eyes weren’t right there every single time. Our gazes catch for two beats too long and there is nary a smile, smirk, scowl or furrowed brow—not even a wink.
As though she senses the need to send my heart into a complete and utter tailspin, Mom asks, “How long have you two been together?”
Lauren smiles as she reaches her hand across Connor’s lap. “Almost two and a half years.”
Mom coos in adoration and I’m…frozen.
Pause. Rewind. Two and a half years?
I had reasoned a long time ago that Connor moved on. After all, I’ve tried to move on myself. But I clearly spent a lot more time than he did grieving what we almost had. What was lost.
My breaths come shaky and unpredictable. Pressure builds behind my eyelids and in my chest. If I sit here another second, I may burst. “I need to use the restroom,” I announce, shoving back from the table with a loud screech of my chair.
When I make it to the ladies’ room, I find the stall in the back corner. My vision clouds over from the tears that have already begun to fall as I fiddle with the latch on the door. I finally secure the lock, close the toilet lid and slump on to the seat.
In the wake of him cutting me out of his life without warning, I spent month after month scraping by.
While I was crying myself to sleep, he was here, moving on with someone else.
The only explanation is that it must have never meant to him what it meant to me.
I never meant to him what he meant to me.
But…that can’t be it. I was there. I saw the way he looked at me. I felt his touch. I tasted his desperate lips on mine.
Knowing I can’t sit here and cry for the entire night, I compose myself. I push back the rest of my tears and let righteous indignation overtake the sadness.
I hate this feeling—betrayal. I know this feeling.
Connor knows I know this feeling because I told him about it.
Even though the hurt magnified with every day that he didn’t call, I never imagined Connor capable of treating me the way she did.
Maybe it isn’t exactly the same as what happened in high school, but the bones are: I let somebody in and they didn’t turn out to be who I thought they were, leaving me looking like a fool.
I have the uncharacteristic urge to punch Connor in the throat. But that would be undignified, not to mention the questions it would raise.
If he had ever told my brother about what happened between us, I’m certain Drew would have asked me about it.
As if on cue, my familiar friend, doubt , creeps back in: Why didn’t he tell anyone? Was he ashamed of himself? Of me? Was it so forgettable he never cared to mention it? Was he drunk and doesn’t remember?
I’m spiraling. And, I remind myself, I never told anyone either .
After using the restroom, I wash my hands and check that my makeup is in order and all remnants of tears are gone. Squaring my shoulders, I return to the table where our entrees have arrived.
As I sit down, Reagan leans into my ear to ask if I’m okay. I panic internally for a moment, worried that I’ve been too transparent, but she seems to accept my excuse that I simply had too much water.
Nervous energy buzzes through my veins. Thankfully, I have an enormous steak knife and a medium rare filet mignon sitting in front of me. I dig in, perhaps too aggressively, but everything bubbling under the surface of my barely contained emotions has to go somewhere.
Easy conversation continues between the three couples surrounding me.
The story of Connor and Lauren’s recent visit to the Outer Banks to see his family over Christmas was especially torturous.
Mom and Dad recite their entire Italy travel schedule, never mind I’ve heard it at least twice already.
Drew regales the table of the Double Date Twins’ plans to attend a Cubs game in a few weeks.
Connor gives a Cliffs Notes version update on his two older brothers and their families. And so it goes and goes.
I should be offended that we’re all at a dinner to celebrate me and I haven’t been included in but ten seconds of conversation. Yet, given the turn of tonight’s events, I’m not complaining.
Let’s be honest, I prefer to fly under the radar in most situations.
Just when I think I might get through dinner without uttering a single word, Lauren is the one who turns the spotlight on me. “So, Gretchen, what was your major?”
Forced to look up from my plate that I’ve been meticulously admiring for the past half hour, it’s only now that I fully see her.
It hits me like a wrecking ball: she’s stunning.
Her blond locks are beach-wave-curled to perfection and her blue eyes give Connor’s a run for their money.
If he’s the quarterback, then she’s the head cheerleader.
I swallow down a bite of my steak and a gallon of envy. “Fashion merchandising. ”
“That’s so cool! I can totally see that. Your dress with those earrings is incredible. I can tell you’ve got an eye for fashion.”
I’ve paired a warm yellow spring dress donning a soft peplum embellishment around the waist with a pair of turquoise drop earrings.
The floor length dress is light and airy but still fancy enough for a restaurant like this.
My earrings, though, are the best part. I’ve styled my hair into a heavy fishtail braid pulled around one side so the turquoise gems can shine.
The fact that she notices and offers the compliment so sincerely makes me like her. Which, incidentally, pisses me off.
“Thank you,” I say.
“What’s your plan now? You have a job lined up?” This must be what Connor loves about her—she’s the social butterfly who never meets a stranger. My polar opposite.
“Well, we certainly hope she finds a job closer to home,” Mom interjects. “We miss having her here.”
I smile at Mom and turn back to Lauren. “I would love to be closer to home but the fashion industry is really centralized in Manhattan so…don’t be upset, Mom and Dad”—I throw them a wink and another smile—“but I plan to go back to New York.”
Mom sighs, more wistful than upset. “Kids. They never listen to their parents.”
The grin on my face lingers but falls the moment Connor’s stare finds me. I’m bound, shackled in place. Elbows on the table, one hand over the fist of the other pressed against his mouth, his eyes pierce directly into mine.
Disarmed, I look to the left and right to make sure nobody takes notice. With everybody’s attention drawn elsewhere, I find him again. This time, his gaze is soft and searching, shoulders slumped and stiff, hand white knuckling his own fist.
I know what I’m looking at—it’s indisputable. Regret.
I can’t think past the lump in my throat, but I force myself to look away.