Where We Belong (A Touch of Fate #1)(38)

"You." His answer is quick and the vulnerability on his face leaves me momentarily stunned. My heart flips and constricts in my chest at his raw honesty.

My first instinct is to catapult myself into his arms and never let go, but that might be a bit dramatic. "Good. I missed you too,” I respond instead. “See, we're making progress. This is going to be fun. Your turn."

A faint smile tugs at his mouth. "Okay. Hmm." He runs his hand across his chin and I follow his movements. "What's your favorite memory from our childhood?"

Interesting. "Well, let me think. There are so many to choose from," I say, shooting him a wink as he lifts his beer bottle to take a drink. "Got it!" I say, snapping my fingers. "It's nothing too special, but do you remember that summer our parents signed us up for the local kickball league?"

A smile lights up Tyson's face and he pulls his beer bottle back enough to speak.

"Of course I remember. I got chosen to be a captain, and I thought I was hot shit! We were on the same team," he says and I smile and nod at his correct recollection, "and everyone made fun of me because you were the only girl in the league and I picked you to be on my team. Ha! We ended up getting first place."

My eyes burn at the memory and I swallow hard. "That was the best summer for me, and that memory stands out above all the others."

He tilts his head. "Why? I mean it was sort of uneventful. Fun, but uneventful."

"Because you picked me first," I reply wistfully. Tyson watches me carefully, his milk-chocolate eyes searching mine. I can tell he's trying to remember, but it's not clicking. "And, it's the first time you told me I was your best friend."

"You remember that? Why don't I remember that?" he asks disappointedly.

"You didn't care what any of the other kids thought." I smile as the memories flood my mind. "Later that same night, we were sitting on the porch swing and I asked you why you chose me. You looked at me like I had asked the stupidest question and you said, ‘Because you're my best friend.’ That moment was—is—so special to me. I'll never forget it."

"Wow. I, umm…" he trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.

"My turn!" I chirp, effectively redirecting the conversation away from my sappy memory and giving him the reprieve he needs. "What's your favorite childhood memory?"

My eyes roam the table and land on the seven shot glasses still sitting in the center. "Wait! Let's do a shot."

"Why are you so hell-bent on drinking? Didn't you get all that out of your system...oh, about six years ago?"

"Well, if you must know, I really haven't gotten the chance to indulge myself much over the past five years and now I have the opportunity. I have no responsibilities this weekend and I'm going to take full advantage of it." Tyson's face drops slightly but he recovers quickly, handing me a shot glass. "Cheers." Tapping my glass to his, I take the shot and cringe.

What the f*ck is wrong with me? That shit could burn the hair off a bald monkey.

"That," I say, pointing my finger at Tyson, "was another question, so I get to ask the next two." Laughing, he waves his hand across the table, conceding to my demand.

"So, what's your favorite childhood memory?"

I can see the memories flit around in his head based on the nostalgic look that crosses his face, but he doesn’t take much time to come up with his response. "I'm not sure I ever told you this, but when I was younger—I can’t remember how young exactly—Dallas would hide under my bed. Sometimes he would do it in the middle of the day, other times at night, but he would be really quiet and when I was relaxed or maybe even on the verge of sleep, he would use his hands and feet and bang on the bottom of my mattress." Scooting forward in his seat, Tyson fights back a laugh in order to finish his story. I want so badly to smile back at him but f*ck me, the mention of his brother is like a punch to the stomach and I pray that he can't see my discomfort. "Damn," he continues, "that used to scare the living shit out of me. I think that one time he scared me so bad, I actually pissed my pants."

"That's a nice memory." A twinge of disappointment flashes through me that his favorite memory doesn't include me, but I quickly shake it off. Tyson worshipped his brother so I shouldn't be surprised.

He shakes his head and takes a drink. "That's not the part that makes it the best. I would always get so mad, but then I would see Dallas rolling around on the floor, laughing uncontrollably with his arms wrapped around his belly. He would laugh so hard that he would cry. That's what makes it my best memory. I don't remember a lot of happy times with Dallas, but that memory stands out. When I think of Dallas being happy and healthy, that's what I think about."

An uncomfortable silence falls between us, the emotions floating off of us are practically palpable in the air. I finish my drink and signal for another round after Tyson finishes his.

"Okay," he says, clapping his hands together. "If that little trip down memory lane doesn't call for another shot, then I don't know what does." I don't respond, instead I smile knowingly and grab a glass, joining him in another shot. "Your turn again."

I look around the bar slowly, contemplating my next question. When did they dim the lights? I look down at my watch and I'm surprised at how much time has passed. The fight on the TV seems to have ended and a band is setting up their equipment on the small stage. I'm glad that we arrived early enough to get our own table, but a small part of me wishes that we were forced to squeeze in next to each other by the bar. That way I could accidentally brush against him or—