Chapter 22
Seventeen years ago
When Aubrey’s father finally met her boyfriend, it was by accident.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when she finished her shift at the bowling alley. Twenty minutes later, she met Nick at the Mexican
place on Main Street for their weekly date.
They always ate at the tiny two-person table near the window. Outside, steelworkers and their wives strolled by, some holding
hands, some swinging children between them, some existing in the comfortable, easy silence of people who’d loved each other
for decades and had already said most of what they needed to say.
Watching them always left warm footprints across Aubrey’s heart. How would she and Nick look, in twenty years? Would they
stop and kiss on street corners? Walk with their pinkies brushing? Would they glance up every so often, trade one of those
knowing smiles that carried the depth of years?
The possibilities were endless, and she loved guessing. She especially loved that they would have twenty years to find out.
Today, they ordered their usual—guacamole, tacos, and virgin margaritas. Nick stacked an absurd amount of green dip onto each chip while Aubrey repeatedly darted in with one of her own to halve his load.
He pouted. “Hey. How am I supposed to get all big and burly if you keep stealing my food?”
“Big and burly?” She swallowed her chip, then propped her chin on a fist. “Sorry, but I don’t think that’s in your future.
I can’t even picture it.”
In truth, he was gaining weight, now that he could buy himself food, but the past month had softened the hollows of his cheeks only slightly.
Nick scooped up half the remaining guacamole and crammed it into his mouth. “Just wait. Someday I’ll pick you up and throw
you over my shoulder.”
She giggled. “How caveman of you.”
“Yeah, well, isn’t that what girls are into? Don’t the guys in those romance novels pick women up all the time?”
“Who knows? I don’t do books, remember?”
“Mmm. Right.” Another chip vanished. “Maybe I’ll just pin you down, instead. Make you listen while I read War and Peace.”
She snickered. “That’s your plan? To be a muscly caveman who holds his girlfriend hostage and force-feeds her Russian literature?”
“Yeah, why not?”
His smile mirrored hers, and the perfection of the moment engulfed her. She settled back, watching while he ate enough to
fill a black hole. In truth, she’d only thieved his guacamole because she knew they’d order another round. And another. On
Tuesdays, they always ran up the bill, then waddled out the door groaning. Because Wednesday through Monday, every spare penny
went toward saving for New York.
Today belonged to them, though, so they ate and laughed and leaned over the tabletop to steal kisses when nobody was looking.
They stole kisses when people were looking, too. Then, after paying the tab, they emerged into the sultry afternoon, their palms locked together.
Hand-holders, probably, she thought. Even in twenty years.
In the grassy square, they took shelter from the July sun within the shadows of the bandstand. Aubrey backed Nick against
a stone column and kissed him, relishing the flavors of lime and salt.
He groaned as she twined her fingers in his spiral curls. She didn’t care that he’d come straight from work, that sweat had
dried in streaks on his sunbaked skin or that coal dust smudged his clothes. Nothing existed except the way he pulled her
against him, the fingers he splayed against the small of her back. She angled her head to give him deeper access. She could
do this for hours. Weeks.
A lifetime.
A nearby snigger shattered the moment. “Man, are those two still at it? You’d think they would’ve given up by now.”
Nick stiffened. Aubrey whipped her head around.
A row of six onlookers leaned against the far balustrade. Among them was Gina Abramo, whose lush black hair hung loose, brushing
her equally lush rear end. Gallant stood beside her, a casual arm slung around her waist. “Hey, MacLean.”
Aubrey’s eyes narrowed, but he sounded friendly, unlike whoever had first spoken.
Gallant’s best friend, Brent Reinholdt, smiled nastily. One front tooth gleamed whiter than its neighbors, reminding Aubrey
of the first basketball game she’d ever cheered. Brent had fought with an opposing player and lost the original against the
guy’s kneecap.
“Did you have something to say?” she snapped.
He flicked his cigarette onto the concrete and ground it out with a sneaker. “Just surprised to see you two still hooking
up.”
“We’re not hooking up,” she said, scathing. “Nick’s my boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh.” Brent sucked on his false tooth. “Well, just be careful you don’t climb on top, later. I’m not sure that boyfriend of yours can survive those thighs you’ve got going on.”
Everyone in Brent’s entourage twittered. Except Gina, who looked scandalized, and Gallant, who frowned.
Nick stepped forward, his eyes cold. “Hey, dickface. You can talk shit to me, but not to my girlfriend. And you definitely
can’t make asshole comments about her body.”
“Oh yeah? Or what? Ooh, wait, I know.” Brent waved his hands in mock terror. “You’re going to bust out your karate shit and
make me say sorry? Oh, no, anything but that.”
Sour rage flooded Aubrey’s tongue. She started to move, but Nick looped long fingers around her wrist and tugged her back.
“That’s exactly what’s going to happen.” He spoke flatly, devoid of emotion. “Because I’m not leaving until you apologize.
So you can either do it with that nice, pretty face you have now, or with a busted lip.”
Brent spat on the concrete. “Come on. Cut the crap. Everyone knows you cheated when you fought Gallant.”
“Do they.”
“Yeah.” Brent glanced to his friend. “Right?”
Gallant blinked, then slid his gaze sideways, as if seeking an escape. “Right.”
Heat swarmed Aubrey’s stomach. She wanted to ask how someone could cheat at something that had no rules, but it would have
wasted a breath.
“Your choice,” Nick said.
Brent cracked his knuckles. “You know what? Let’s do it. If anyone’s apologizing here, it’s going to be you, to Gallant. I
don’t like it when people mess with my friends, and it’s about time someone set the record straight.”
Nick broke into a wolfish smile. “Finally. Something we agree on.”
Aubrey should have stepped in. Or, more accurately, she should have wanted to step in. But some feral corner of her vibrated with pride, because she hated bullies. She especially detested anyone who
tried to elevate themselves by dominating others.
Nick stalked to the center of the bandstand and motioned for Brent to approach. His face was a cold, hard mask, but she glimpsed
the secret underneath. The hint of anticipation glittering in the depths.
Still, she braced. She knew who would throw the first punch—who would always throw the first punch—and phantom pain bloomed when Brent slammed his fist into Nick’s eye.
But she curled her nails into her palms and stayed out of it. Sure enough, Nick recovered in moments, throwing himself into
the fight with dark, bullish grace.
The scuffle lasted half as long as Gallant’s. Inside of a minute, Nick had Brent’s cheek mashed against a column, his arm
wrenched behind his back at an angle that reminded Aubrey of twisting off turkey legs at Thanksgiving.
“Any time now.” Nick yanked.
Brent yelped and cast wild eyes at his friends. None of them moved. Blood dribbled from Brent’s nose, making blotches on his
yellow polo. “Uh . . . yeah. Sorry, MacLean.”
Nick did something to Brent’s arm that elicited another whimper. “We’re not in the army, asshole. Her name’s Aubrey.”
“Right. Aubrey. Sorry, Aubrey.”
“For?” Nick prompted.
“I, uh, I didn’t mean anything bad about your thighs. I mean, only that they’re really powerful. They have to be, right? Everyone’s
seen that thing you do at halftime, where—”
“Jesus.” Nick made a disgusted sound and thrust Brent away. He toppled into his friends, who caught him more out of sheer surprise than anything else.
Nick turned to Aubrey and threaded his fingers through hers. Brent’s opening punch had split the skin beneath one perfect
brow, and the wound leaked blood into his eye and down his shirtfront.
But she didn’t recoil. He looked beautiful like this. She squeezed his hand and turned her back on Gina and the others, leaving
them to sort out their opinions about what had just happened on their own.
Around the corner, Nick stopped long enough to rip a square of fabric from his shirt. “How bad is it? Do I need stitches?”
She peered at the cut. She didn’t have any experience evaluating things like this, but the gash wasn’t gaping. “I don’t think
so. Maybe just a butterfly bandage. Does it hurt?”
He shrugged. “Not enough to spend time talking about it.”
“That was . . . sweet. What you just did.”
He snorted. “Sweet? Bringing you flowers would’ve been sweet.”
“No way. I’d take punching over flowers any day. Or a love letter. Or maybe you holding me down and reading Dostoevsky. That’d
work, too.”
Those tilted eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re the most perfect girl in the world, you know that? Except for one thing.”
She arched a brow. “What’s that?”
“Tolstoy wrote War and Peace. Not Dostoevsky. I mean, come on.”
She laughed and planted a kiss on his cheek, not minding the hint of salted iron that came with it. “Let’s stop at the pharmacy,
then clean you up at my house, okay?”
He hesitated. “Your parents won’t be home?”
“Not yet. It’s only four.”
He nodded. In the car, he pressed his makeshift bandage to his face while she drove the mile-and-a-half to the brick-fronted
drug store where she’d bought nickel bubble gum and cream soda as a kid.
She parked along the curb and hopped out. “You stay here.”
To her surprise, he didn’t protest, just leaned back against the headrest and clamped down on the wadded square of T-shirt.
“Okay. Thanks.”
She fought a smile as the door jingled on her way in. Nick took care of her. Always. But this marked the first time he’d allowed
her to return the favor.