Chapter 6
Victoria
Do it again sometime?
Like, go out to breakfast again or go out on a date or something else?
What the hell is happening?
“I don’t, I mean, no, I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say cautiously. “But I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if you’d like to have breakfast or lunch again.” His eyes bore into mine.
God, he’s still gorgeous.
His eyes are a dark blue, deep set and framed by light lashes. He’s a natural blond, like me, something we used to laugh about. Something we probably would have passed on to our children. And as I search his face for answers to questions I haven’t even asked, I see nothing but sincerity.
“You don’t have a girlfriend?” I ask dubiously. “You can’t tell me there are no women in your life.”
“I didn’t say that, but there’s no one serious in my life. They’re not the same thing.”
So, he’s sleeping around, playing the field, doing what any single, red-blooded athlete would do.
“But why would we?” I ask softly, fear and insecurity guiding my response.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “It just feels like this isn’t the end. Like we still have unfinished business.”
“Jordan, this can only end badly.”
He sighs, abruptly pulling his hand from mine. “You’re right. Forget I asked.”
Dammit.
I don’t want things to end on a sour note. Not again.
And I would like to see him again.
I just don’t know how we could do it. My father would have a coronary. He’d make both of our lives miserable, and I’ve worked so hard to get past what happened four years ago.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say sadly. “I’m just…unsure about the repercussions. We dodged a bullet four years ago, you know? It would be opening up a whole new can of worms, one that could be problematic.”
His lips tighten for a moment, and then he shrugs. “Whatever. I thought it might be fun, but you’re right. No biggie. Forget I said anything.”
Ouch.
That kind of hurts, but I’m sure my rejection hurt his ego so he’s lashing out. That’s what Jordan does.
“What time is your next class?” he asks abruptly. “I can get you back there in time if we hurry.”
Ugh.
This is exactly what I wanted to avoid, but Jordan and I have always run hot and cold. When we’re hot, it’s incredible. But when we fight, the mood between us can be frigid. We’re not doing that now, obviously, but the tension in the air is palpable.
Back in the day, we’d fight about my father. Constantly. Why I never stood up to him. Why I let him boss me around even after I turned eighteen. Why he controlled so much of my life.
I’m different now but my father is fundamentally the same. He couldn’t go after Jordan the way he did four years ago, because at twenty-two, I can’t be portrayed as a na?ve high school girl, but he could still make trouble for him. And that’s the last thing I want.
I protected Jordan then, and it feels like I’m doing the same thing now. Even though we’re both adults who shouldn’t need protecting.
Or maybe it’s myself—more specifically, my heart—that I’m protecting.
“I have a little time,” I say, taking a bite of the pancakes I was so looking forward to. They’ve sort of lost their taste now, and I chew absently, watching Jordan as he seems to inhale his breakfast.
He loves to eat, always has. I remember teasing him about his appetite and him saying he was a growing boy.
“Are you taller now?” I ask, even though it’s completely out of context.
He arches a brow. “Than when we were together? Yeah, I grew another two inches between nineteen and twenty-one. I’m just over six-three now.”
“I didn’t grow any more,” I deadpan.
He actually snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “Didn’t figure you would.”
We make small talk as we finish eating and he pays the bill.
Then we get in his SUV and make the ten-minute ride back to campus.
“Thank you for breakfast,” I say softly.
“You’re welcome.” He stops near the walkway that leads into the main building. “You good here?”
“Yes.” I reach into the back seat for my backpack. “I’m, uh, glad we had a chance to talk things out. I really am sorry about the way things went down.”
“I know.” He doesn’t look at me, merely tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
The silence stretches out so I slowly open the door. He still isn’t looking at me, which is how he behaves when he’s hurt, and I don’t know how or if I should fix it. Seeing him again would only bring a lot of stress to both our lives, no matter how strong the pull is.
“You don’t have to say anything, Victoria,” he says quietly. “Go on to class. We talked, cleared the air. I’m good. I mean, we never got a chance to last time, so this is our do-over. If you have something else to get off your chest, the time is now.”
There are still so many feelings I could bring up, but to what end? What am I trying to accomplish by talking about how much I loved him? We were both lied to, manipulated, and pushed apart. My father was the main culprit, but Jordan’s team and attorneys didn’t help either.
“We let them manipulate us.”
“We did.”
“Why?” I ask in frustration. “Why didn’t we recognize it for what it was?”
“Don’t do that.” He shakes his head. “We were teenagers battling multiple crises. The car accident. Miscarriage. My injuries. Legal threats. It was a lot for two kids. And that’s what we were—kids. Adult kids, but still kids.”
“So we get a pass on hurting each other?”
“What choice do we have? We can hold on to the anger and hurt, but the only ones that’ll suffer are you and me. I think we’ve been through enough. We don’t need to put that on each other.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Nothing. I asked if you wanted us to see each other again, you said no, so that’s that. Time to move on.”
“It feels…weird.”
“Weird how?”
“It’s hard to articulate.”
“I can’t help you express what you’re feeling,” he says simply.
“What are you feeling?” I counter in frustration.
He shrugs. “Honestly? Not much. I now know things I haven’t had time to process, and that’ll take some time, but otherwise, I’m thinking about the game tonight. You know hockey is always my priority.”
He’s lying. I know the tells. When he shrugs a lot. When he doesn’t meet my gaze. When he acts aloof. And when he says that hockey is his priority—that’s bullshit. I was his priority once upon a time. Until I wasn’t.
This is all an act, one that I recognize. The difference now is that he isn’t my boyfriend, and it’s not my job to make this better, even though I really, really want to.
“Play well tonight,” I say instead. “I guess…I’ll see you around.”
“Take care, Victoria.”
This time when our eyes meet there’s a flicker of emotion in his. Regret, maybe, coupled with resignation. Probably a mirror image of what he sees in mine, because I have so many regrets. And a fuck-ton of resignation.
“I guess this is it,” I whisper, suddenly emotional.
He doesn’t respond, just watches me as I slip out of the SUV, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and head for the building.
I pause after I’ve taken a few steps and turn back to look at him.
He’s still sitting there, watching me.
Dammit, why is this so hard?
But unless I tell him I’ve changed my mind about seeing him again, what’s the point? The problem is that I have no way to get in touch with him if I do change my mind, but giving him my number feels manipulative.
I don’t want to go out with you, but I want to stay in touch.
Then he takes the decision out of my hands by putting the SUV in drive and pulling forward. He goes to the end of the street, turns right at the stop sign, and then disappears from sight.
Well, that’s that.
Time to think about international finance and a bunch of other boring stuff.
I’m better off without the headache of Jordan Palmer being back in my life.
If only I understood why it feels so wrong.