Chapter 6
EBBA
After tossing and turning one too many times, I shove the duvet off my body and slowly sit up. My feet sink into the plush rug, and I take a moment to ground myself before I scoop up my sweater and tug it on.
I’m not hungry, but I can’t help wondering if a snack would help me sleep better.
Our flight back home, thankfully, isn’t scheduled super early but I don’t want to be exhausted when I get on the plane later.
Familiar with the layout of Noah’s house now, I make my way downstairs as quietly as possible. I don’t like to go through people’s pantries and take food, but I know Noah and Sabrina would want me to help myself.
Perusing the shelves, I frown when nothing sticks out to me.
I plant my hands on my hips, peeking at the higher shelves. I notice there’s a stool in the corner to use to reach them.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
A scream rips out of me at the same time my whole-body curls in on itself and I drop to the ground.
“Whoa,” Fisher says, reaching down to offer me a hand. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t sneak up on women like that,” I scold, brushing his hand away.
“Sorry.” His cheeks redden in the soft glow of the light inside the pantry. “I said your name before. I thought you heard me.”
“Clearly not.” I brush my hands down my pajamas.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” he says, dropping his gaze to the ground.
It’s then that I realize not only is he bare chested and only in a pair of low hanging sweatpants but he’s wearing his glasses.
I never thought glasses would turn me on, but when we were together there was something about seeing Fisher in his glasses in the evening that was so hot and it made him feel even more like mine because so few ever get to see him in them.
“You should wear your glasses more,” I blurt stupidly.
He looks up, flicking hair out of his eyes. “Huh?”
“I … uh … I just read an article on how tiring contacts can be. You should wear your glasses more often if it … uh … feels better to your eyes.”
He arches a brow. “Cool. I’ll keep that in mind.” The air between us grows thick with something I refuse to give a name to. “Do you want a malt?”
His sudden question catches me off guard. “Huh?”
“A chocolate malt. You always loved them before.”
“I … it’s the middle of the night,” I hedge.
“So?” He shrugs, taking one step closer to me. The pantry is larger than most, downright massive, but I feel like the walls are closing in on me. “It’s always a good time for ice cream. Isn’t that what you always said?”
I hate this—I hate the reminder of how well he knows me, even this many years later.
“I did say that.”
“Go sit down.” He gestures behind himself. “Let me take care of you.”
I close my eyes. I want to say no more than anything, but we still need to get through this wedding.
“Sure,” I say.
I step around him, my bare arm grazing his chest as I go. His breath catches and I pretend I didn’t hear it. Sitting on the stool, I watch him come out of the pantry with a container of the malt powder and chocolate syrup.
He works quickly and efficiently to gather the ingredients and put them in the blender.
“Isn’t that going to be too loud?” I ask when he goes to plug it in.
He pauses, hand hovering midair and gives me an arched brow stare. “Have you seen how big this house is? No one will hear a thing.”
He finishes plugging in the blender and starts it up. When everything is blended, he grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it before adding a straw and handing it to me.
“Let me know how it is. Be honest. I can handle it.”
Wrapping my lips around the straw I have no control over the moan that comes out of me. “Oh my god. That’s delicious.”
His grin is instantaneous. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.” I sigh dreamily, closing my eyes as I let the flavors settle on my tongue. “I haven’t had one of these in forever.”
“Really?” He braces his hands on the counter in front of me. I quickly drop my gaze from his flexed biceps. “You used to have one any chance you got.”
“Most places don’t make them anymore.”
“What about that ice cream shop that was close to your place in Miami?”
I take another sip of the malt before answering. “I don’t know. I haven’t been there in years.”
He jerks back in surprise. “Years?”
I shrug. “I guess I just didn’t feel like going.”
What I don’t say, is that while the little ice cream shop just down the block originally felt like mine, it quickly began to feel like ours.
Anytime he visited it was a place we had to go to.
I got him hooked on my beloved chocolate malt and after we broke up it felt like yet another reminder of what I had lost.
Fisher’s smart, so I’m not surprised when he says, “Because of me.”
Another shrug from me. “Yeah.”
He pushes his glasses further up his nose and meets my gaze. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve said it before, but I want you to know I mean it. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I know you are.”
He lowers his head and whispers, “I don’t know that I can ever forgive myself for not being there with you.”
I stay silent, not because I want him to suffer (okay, maybe a little) but because I don’t know what to say.
I’m old enough now to understand that expecting him to get there in the middle of a Majors semi-final was delusional.
Chances he was checking his phone were slim.
But I was young, emotional, and losing our baby.
It was easier to blame him than to be logical about the situation.
Especially when I had no one else around me who knew.
He raps his knuckles against the counter and gives me a small, sad smile. “Enjoy your malt.”
I watch him leave the kitchen, wondering why a part of me desperately wants to call him back.