Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(34)

Lindsey pushes half a cookie into her mouth before sighing and relaxing into the plush back of her seat.

“So he’s a no-show?” I ask, breaking one of the cookies in half to nibble on.

“Looks like it,” she sighs. “I texted him about ten minutes ago. And oh my god, Em, I sound like an idiot.”

She hands me her phone, and I read her messages that at first asks if maybe she has the day and place wrong, noticing that he texted her right above that with the exact time and place for them to meet on Wednesday—today. Then she tried to fix it with a: duh, I could have just read your last text. Okay, so I’m here. I’ll just be here waiting.

I cringe when I hand it back to her, and tilt the lid on my cookies a little higher, encouraging her to take one more to console herself.

“I know, right? So bad,” she sighs, falling back into her cushion. “Do you want some of my wine? I got a whole bottle.”

“Sure,” I say, reaching for one of the upside down glasses at the end of the table. I pour a small glass, and hold it up to toast when Lindsey grabs my wrist, making me spill a drop or two on the sleeve of my favorite Tech sweatshirt. Damn.

“Oh shit! He’s here!” she whispers excitedly, immediately brushing off the front of her dress, wiping the corners of her mouth and fidgeting in her seat. I’m blotting at the now-purple spots on my super-soft, I’ll-never-find-one-like-this-again, white sweatshirt when Lindsey drops her uneaten half of a cookie back into the stash to hide what we were doing. She’s making me nervous now, too.

“Oh…crap…uh…I’ll go,” I rush, grabbing my cookies and lid and chugging my glass of wine quickly while I try to exit the booth gracefully. I don’t realize what’s happening—what has happened, what this would feel like or the fact that I could feel anything like this at all—until I stand and stumble forward, letting my hand land flat in the center of his chest.

I’m sixteen the second our eyes meet.

I’m sixteen again, and I’m right back at the kitchen table with my parents, and they’re telling me how right they were, everyone was, about Andrew Harper.

I’m sixteen, and I’m looking at the aftereffect of my lies—my omissions.

I kept my mouth shut.

And Andrew did too.

Now here we are, five years later, in a wine bar where he’s meeting my best friend for a date. Their first date. And he’s looking at me like I might be the worst human on the planet. But then, he also looks at me like he misses me. And a little like he hates me, then as if he doesn’t know me at all. It’s all in there, in that space behind his eyes. They’re swirling—his emotions.

My heart has never hurt like this. I’ve thought I saw him so many times. I never thought it was real.

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest, my lungs are burning, and my mouth is trying to remember how to gasp for air, all of me too stunned to actually just breathe. By the time my lungs function again, I suck in air so fast it chokes me, and I start to cough. I realize my hand is still on his chest when he looks down at it, his brows raised. I pull it away quickly, balling it into a fist, because for those few seconds I had my palm on him, I swear I felt his heartbeat. It’s like I want to catch it and put it away for later.

“Emma, this is your big hero,” my friend says behind me. “Drew, this is Emma.”

The irony that she calls him that strikes fast, and I laugh once, but quickly cover my mouth because a part of me also feels like crying. I’m unable to close my mouth under my palm. That anxiety that plagued me for months after our accident comes roaring back into my being. It never truly left. The scar—the memory of that night, of him being driven away from me, the feeling in my gut at what he was doing…for me—it creeps in at night, invades my dreams, and surprises me in quiet moments. That sharp stab—it’s always really there.

What can I possibly say to him? That question etches itself into my mind all hours of the night, while I lie in bed and look out my window wishing he’d just show up, stand outside and throw a rock up to wake me. If he did, what would I say?

What can I say now?

Thank you? Thank you for taking the fall for me, for my carelessness? You may have saved my life. But then…why were you high? And…how could you? You drove like that; you could have killed me. Did I ever really know you at all?

Did I?

“It’s nice to meet you, Emma. I’m glad I was able to get your license back to you. I bet that had you worried,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake, his eyes directing me toward it, to shake it. It’s the same smile from our youth, but…then it’s not.

“Yeah, uh…nice to meet you too,” I stammer, my voice awkward and meek. I take his lead, playing this as if we’re strangers, but I know he recognizes me. I feel my friend’s hand on my shoulder, and I jump, turning to her just in time to see her holding the tin of cookies. Oh god, she’s giving him the f*cking cookies!

“She was so grateful, she baked you cookies,” Lindsey laughs. I smile at her through gritted teeth, my brow pulled forward and my mouth aching from forcing a smile. She shakes her head at me, unsure why I look so desperate. “We…uh…well, sort of ate a few while I was waiting.”

Andrew takes the tin in his hand, and I’m glued to his face again, waiting for his reaction. This whole scene is a morbid type of irony, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to taste an oatmeal cookie again without associating it with everything I’m experiencing right now.