Chapter 8 #2
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I say, leaning back against the booth in disbelief. “So this table is finished. That means it’s supposed to be going to someone else.” I gesture toward the hostess stand. “There’s a line of people waiting out there, and I’ve just stolen their table.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Zach—”
I stop talking the second a waiter appears and starts to clear the plates. I don’t want to make a scene, but Zach is making it hard for me not to. I watch the waiter work. He’s stacking plates, sweeping the crumbs, and all I feel is embarrassment at how absurd this situation is.
When the waiter leaves, Zach says, “The bill hasn’t been paid yet, so the reservation isn’t finished.”
“You kept the bill open so I could eat?”
He looks up at someone, then back to me. I stare at him. That’s not how things work. Not when you have a full restaurant. You get a set amount of time, and you need to eat within it. He’s done something else to keep this table; I just know it.
Zach stares back at me, completely unbothered.
“That’s the plan. I’d also like a nightcap before heading to my room.” He picks up the drinks menu and flips it open. “Maybe I’ll try an espresso martini to broaden my horizons.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I say, shaking my head. I want to stay angry. I really do, but the idea that he’s doing this just so I can eat is kind of romantic—in a Zach kind of way, of course.
“I prefer resourceful, respectful, thoughtful, loving, kind...”
He trails off when the waiter comes over, thankfully. No one wants to hear him praise himself for the next ten minutes.
The waiter places a menu in front of me and recites the specials. I order a glass of red wine and linguine carbonara because I’m too hungry to argue. Zach orders his martini, and the waiter nods, writing it down before leaving us alone.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome. How’s your stomach?” he asks. “You looked pretty rough earlier.”
“I was not rough—”
“Honeycomb, you were hanging over that railing like a frat boy on spring break, and then when I saw your face, you were green like a cute little seasick frog.”
“Maybe I looked like that because I’d just realized my ex is stalking me.”
“Stalking? That’s a little OTT, don’t you think? I prefer to say I’m showing initiative. You used to like that about me.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, and Zach’s entire face changes when he hears it. He doesn’t have to say a word; I can see the hopefulness in his eyes, and I hate it.
I hate that I like it. That it always makes my stomach flip.
I look away and reach for the glass of water just to give myself something to do. “Don't do that,” I say quietly.
“Do what?”
“Don't look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like—” I trail off because I don't know how to finish the sentence without admitting something I'm not ready to. He won’t stop looking at me.
“Like I don’t disappoint you every time I’m around you.”
I purse my lips together because that shouldn’t have come out. I’m light-headed and starving, which apparently means my filter is the first thing to go.
There’s a quiet moment between us for a second before he knocks his foot against mine under the table.
“Is that what you think? That you’re a disappointment?”
“How could I not be?” I ask quietly.
I turned down the only thing he ever asked of me.
I won’t just get back together with him and stop all of this.
Here I am, unable to commit to a college or even choose a course and he’s already finished all of that stuff.
None of that matters now that he’s graduated early and on a multi-million-dollar salary.
I’m nothing compared to that.
Stop the negative self-talk. You’ll never move forward if you’re always thinking about the past.
Dr. Reeves’s words play in my head, but they don’t mean a thing when I’m staring at the guy who wants to be my past, present, and future even though I break his heart every time he sees me.
Zach reaches his hand across the table, placing it over mine. “I’m not your dad or Jamie, Honeycomb. You could never disappoint me.”
“Don't you think that's the problem?” I say pointedly, looking at the edges of the tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve. “I can say or do anything, and you keep coming back, tattooing yourself with declarations of love and thoughts of a future that I can’t promise you.”
He looks down at the edge of the honeycomb ink disappearing beneath his sleeve, then back at me.
“No,” he says simply. “I think the problem is that you keep acting like loving you is some kind of burden I didn’t choose.”
His thumb brushes over my hand once.
“I got the tattoo because I wanted to. I keep showing up because I want to. I’m here because every version of my life that makes sense has you in it.”
My throat tightens.
“Honey, you talk like I’m sacrificing something. I’m not. Loving you has never felt like losing.”
Then why do I always feel like such a loser?
His voice drops lower.
“The only thing that feels wrong is pretending I could want anything else.”
My chest aches so suddenly, it feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.
This is the problem with Zach. He always says and does the right thing. Zach loves loudly, fully, without hesitation. He doesn’t do halfway. He throws himself into everything he does and looks at me like I’m the safest place to land.
I’m not.
I’m anxiety, confusion, and second-guessing all wrapped in one. I want to believe that he really does love me, but I hate myself for questioning it.
Why would he love me? I’ve done nothing to earn it.
My eyes drop to the edge of that beautiful honeycomb tattoo again. Permanently there, like me, apparently.
The thought makes guilt crawl up my throat because what if one day he looks at it and regrets me?
What if one day he wakes up and realizes he spent all his time chasing me, and I was never worth all of this?
“Do you want to look at it?” he asks, pulling his sleeve up before resting his forearm on the table in front of me.
I lean forward, studying the intricate honeycomb design.
It’s beautiful and so different from any tattoo I’ve ever seen.
The dark hexagons interlock across his skin, some filled with golden honey, others with it dripping out of them.
There’s a little bumblebee at the top, and as I study it, I realize my initials are hidden in the wings, which somehow only makes me feel worse.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I swallow, not wanting to say how I really feel about it. I love it. It's so him, and it's so us, but we aren’t an us anymore, are we?
“It's—” I stop myself.
He tilts his head, studying me.
“Linguine carbonara,” the waiter says as he stands next to the table.
I raise my hand. “That’s mine,” I say, leaning back against the booth to give him space to place the plate down.
The smell alone makes my stomach rumble, and I forget everything Zach and I were talking about.
The waiter hands Zach his martini, and the second he’s away from the table, I grab my fork and start to shovel the food into my mouth. I’m too hungry to be polite, and too insecure to keep our conversation going.
“It’s so good,” I say, closing my eyes and practically melting into the booth.
I keep chewing, letting the taste explode in my mouth. When I open my eyes, Zach’s staring right at me with a look of amusement on his face.
“Something wrong?” I say, sitting up a little before shoveling more food onto my fork.
He shakes his head, trying to hold back a smirk. “No. No. I was just reminded of something from high school.”
“What?” I say once I've swallowed my food.
“Remember the first time I let you have some of my burger?”
It takes me a second before it clicks, and I stare at him wide-eyed. He’s talking about the time I moaned so loudly he thought I’d never had a real orgasm. He was right. I never had. Not until him.
He shrugs. “At least this time I know I can make you sound better than that.”
“Zach,” I say with warning tone even though my thighs clench a little under the table.
“Sorry. Can’t help myself when I’m around you, but I’ll try.”
I grit my teeth and focus on my meal, swirling the pasta onto my fork and eating, albeit a little slower and quieter than before.
“So, you and Drew seemed friendly. I didn't realize you kept in touch after that dinner in sophomore year.”
“We've seen each other at a few NFL events over the last year. He's a good guy.” He pauses and shifts back in his seat. “He and Bella went through some shit and spent some time apart. She's just come back from living in London.”
The words hang there, and I know exactly why he's saying them. The parallel is impossible to miss.
“Don't,” I warn.
“Don't what? I'm just telling you about my friend's relationship. Making dinner conversation.” The picture of innocence.
“You're making a point.”
“Am I? What point would that be?”
I set my fork down. “That people who separate can find their way back to each other. That time apart doesn't mean it's over.”
He holds my gaze. “I didn't say any of that.”
“You didn't have to.”
My phone buzzes in my purse, but I have no urgency to answer it. It’s probably just Olivia checking in anyway.
I finish my linguine while Zach tells me about all the things he has to do to prepare for preseason, and how excited he is to still be playing with Reese and Dax. Somehow, they all managed to get on the same team in the draft. He said it wasn't planned, but it feels like it was.
I'm leaning in.
I catch myself and sit back, reaching for my wine.
“Dessert?” the waiter asks, appearing out of nowhere.
“No, I—”
“She'll have the chocolate torte,” Zach says. “And I'll have a fork.”
The waiter nods, walking away.
I can’t help myself; I give Zach a little nudge with my foot under the table. “Why did you order dessert for me?”
“Because I know you wanted it.”
“Didn’t you already have the torte?”
“I did, but you know me. When I like something, I always want a little more.”