Chapter 12
ABBY
I would not have thought twice about what to wear tonight if it wasn’t for Miles’s comment, but it plagued me as I got dressed.
My stomach is in knots, like I’m going on a date or something, which I am most definitely not.
An old boyfriend and I are getting dinner together, nothing more, nothing less.
And trying on every single dress I own twice has nothing to do with wanting to look pretty for Miles and everything to do with being indecisive about my outfit.
Which happens all the time to me—to every woman, in fact.
I almost text Hazel and ask for her input, but I don’t want her making any comments about this being a date. Which it’s definitely not. Dates have intentions. Romantic intentions—and there are no romantic intentions between Miles and me.
I eventually land on a navy-blue ankle-length dress with spaghetti straps, a corseted top, and a pleated, flowy skirt.
It should at the very least elicit a comment from Miles.
Not that I care because I chose this dress for me and not to watch the way his eyes roam my bare skin or hope that he would run his hand down my arm.
Even if I wanted him to touch me, it’s not a good idea. His touch is electric, and it will only make me want more. And if we do more, I’m going to get emotionally attached or, worse, develop real feelings for him.
I worry that all the love I had for Miles never really left me; it just got buried after he broke up with me. I did bury it deep, ready to be forgotten for all time. But every touch from him is a layer of dirt excavated away, and I don’t know what will happen if it’s unearthed.
Which is why it’s important that it stays buried. We can have dinner together or do an activity, but he needs to keep his hands off me because the temptation is too much for me.
Plus, I only have five days left. Surely, I can keep my feelings and hands to myself for the next five days.
Miles is already waiting for me as I approach the restaurant, and boy, did he deliver.
He isn’t wearing anything “pretty,” but he’s wearing the same collared shirt he wore two nights ago.
It’s either slim cut, or his muscles just don’t fit in regular shirts.
His biceps are huge, emphasized by the tight fabric of the shirt.
It’s form-fitting across his chest and loose around his abdomen.
His off-white chinos and loafers make it clear that he knows how to put an outfit together.
His silver chain winks out from under his collar, and a matching silver watch ties the whole outfit together.
When he sees me, his teeth sink into his bottom lip, and I hear an appreciative groan as I approach. It’s hard to fight a smile—my lips lift into one anyway.
“Absolutely gorgeous,” he says, his voice low in my ear as he slips an arm around my waist to pull me against him for a hug.
Fuck, he smells nice. Vanilla and warm spices and something clean, like a soap with citrusy notes.
“Why do you smell so good?” he murmurs against my skin. His warm breath gives me goosebumps all down my arms.
I was going to ask you the same thing.
It’s still warm out, even though the sun has dipped low enough that we’re not getting hit by its harshest heat, and the slightest hint of his sweat smell comes through his cologne. My body responds exactly the way I expected it would. With a deep, devastating want.
I try to come up with something clever to say, but nothing comes to mind. My brain is clogged with focusing on where his hand is wrapped around my ribs, his forearm sturdy against my back, his chest pressed against mine.
I extract myself from his arm with monumental effort and avert my eyes by straightening my dress despite the lack of wrinkles.
“Shall we?” I ask.
“After you.”
For the second time this week, I take the little walkway up to the Mexican restaurant, but this time I make it to the ma?tre d’s podium.
We’re taken to a table for two; one side of the table is a booth, which Miles offers to me, and he takes the chair.
The lighting is dim, a few small tea lights glowing on the table, nestled in a short, wide terra-cotta planter filled with small rocks and succulents.
The cloth napkins are black, the tablecloth itself a simple white, giving the restaurant a more upscale feel.
A romantic feel.
I know I won’t be able to hide behind the menu forever, but for a few minutes, I bury my nose in the pages, pretending to need extra time to think over what I want. Even after we’ve both ordered margaritas—mine frozen and his on ice—I still take my time browsing the menu.
When a waiter comes over and takes our order—and, thus, my shield—I start on my margarita. By the time I look at Miles, I find him already looking at me.
“What?” I ask. “You’re staring at me.”
“I can’t help it,” he says, that overconfident, flirty smile on his face.
“This isn’t a date.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he says. “Just two old friends getting a romantic dinner.”
I can’t even argue with him about this not being a romantic setting. It’s deeply romantic and does not help that we are boxed in by couples holding hands and staring longingly into each other’s eyes.
“Question for a question?” I offer, trying to avoid the topic of dating at all. That stuff is in our past and needs to stay there.
“I’ll play. You first,” he says.
“You mentioned your brother Gray the other day, and you’ve mentioned your mom. It seems like you’re still close with them. What about your dad?”
He sighs, a heavy, deep breath, and raises his eyebrows, looking at the table, like there might be answers there.
“Boy, you did not start with an easy ball, did you?”
“Not my style,” I say with a smirk.
“All right, that’s okay. I can go deep on the first round.” He smirks at me.
The insinuation makes my cheeks warm. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t make any other comments, just taps his fingers against his glass, as if choosing his words. He takes a fortifying sip of his drink before speaking.
“We don’t talk. Well, I don’t talk to him. He reaches out at least once a month, inviting me to dinner or something. Texts me on my birthday, all of that. But our relationship changed when he left. I mean, you know.”
He gestures to me, and I nod. I do know.
Miles’s parents’ broken marriage defined our relationship.
He didn’t deal out trust easily, certainly not as easily as he dealt out anger.
He was never violent or raised his voice toward me.
But he found anger quicker than anyone else I knew.
He cared for me, and I always believed that he loved me—he told me as much without saying the words.
He promised he’d be able to someday, but left me before he could keep his word.
I knew it had everything to do with the way his dad’s infidelity shaped his view of love and relationships.
It’s why I never blamed him or rushed him. It hurt, but I understood.
I also saw the way he struggled with his relationship with his dad.
He was still talking to him then, but barely.
And when he’d go home for breaks for school, he would see his dad, and it would always ruin his day.
I secretly hoped he’d take some space from his dad, for his own sake if nothing else, but it was one of those unresolved threads after our breakup.
“He came to one of my games, my first year in the NHL. I hadn’t responded to him in a month—the longest I’d ever gone without speaking to him.
I was just busy, and every time he texted me, it pissed me off.
I mean, I was a mess already. We had been broken up for six months or something, and so when he just showed up without warning at my game, it was my last straw.
He’d waited outside the door where we always left after a game.
I guess he told security he was my dad and they let him through.
He tried to hug me, and I tried to start a fight.
A couple buddies held me off him, and I told him to get lost.”
He pauses to drink. Even if it was my turn to talk, I don’t think I could. My heart is lodged in my throat. This sounds like something out of reality TV, not something that happened to Miles.
“I called him the next day and told him that when I wanted to talk to him, he would know. I told him never to show up at one of my games again, or I’d take out a restraining order.”
He laughs, but it’s a dark huff of a noise. “I think my mom keeps him updated on my life. He sent a card after my injury and, like I said, he still texts me, but I never respond. I know I sound like I’m still angry, but a lot of that has…lessened with time.”
He drags his fingers over the side of his cup and eventually lifts his eyes to mine. “Long answer, but yeah, that’s the gist of it.”
It’s hard to know the right thing to say when someone tells a story like that, so I break my own rule and reach out to place my hand over his.
“You did what was best for you, and that’s all you can do,” I say.
He nods: acknowledgment and agreement. “That’s what my therapist said, too.”
“Therapist?”
“While I was rehabbing my knee, I was also in therapy. My coach recommended it. He came back from an injury and said therapy helped him with the mental side of it. So I did it for a couple years. My dad got brought up, of course.”
I’m surprised and impressed by this information.
Miles was not open to therapy in college.
Hazel suggested it to him one time, when his short fuse ruined a dinner we’d had together.
I don’t even remember why it came up. I just remember we were talking about our families and he almost spat when talking about his dad.
Hazel asked if he’d ever consider therapy, and Miles was pissed about it, threw his napkin down and left the table.
He apologized later, but his stance was clear: no therapy.