Regretting You(44)

Miller shakes his head. “No. He’s not in any shape to drive.”

“He seemed like he was in pretty good shape to me.”

Miller scratches his jaw. “He has cancer. The doctors are giving him six months, tops.”

That feels like a brutal punch to my gut, and I’ve only met the man once.

“He likes to pretend it isn’t happening and that he’s fine. But I can tell he’s scared.”

It makes me wonder more about Miller’s family. Like what his mother is like, and why my father seemed to hate his father so much.

“Are the two of you very close?”

Miller just nods. I can tell by his refusal to verbally answer that question that he’s going to take it hard when it does happen. That makes me sad for him.

“You should write everything down.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “What do you mean?”

“Write it all down. Everything you want to remember about him. You’ll be surprised how soon you start to forget everything.”

Miller smiles at me appreciatively. “I will,” he says. “I promise. But I also have a camera in his face most of the time for that very reason.”

I smile back and then stare out the window. That’s all that’s said between us until he pulls back into the Starbucks parking lot fifteen minutes later.

I stretch my back and then my arms before unbuckling my seat belt. “Thank you. I needed that.”

“Me too,” Miller says. He’s leaning against his driver’s-side door, his head resting on his hand as he watches me gather my bag and open my door.

“You have good taste in music.”

“I know,” he says, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“See you at school tomorrow?”

“See ya.”

The way he’s looking at me makes me think he doesn’t want me to go, but he’s not saying anything to indicate otherwise, so I exit his truck. I shut the door and turn to my car, but I can hear him scrambling out of his truck while I search for my keys.

He’s next to me now, leaning against my car. Miller’s stare is intense. I feel it everywhere. “We should hang out again. You busy tomorrow night?”

I halt the search for my keys and make eye contact with him. Tomorrow night sounds good, but tonight sounds even better. It’s still another hour before I have to be home. “Let’s just hang out right now.”

“Where do you want to go?”

I glance at the doors to Starbucks, already craving more caffeine. “Another coffee sounds really good.”



All the smaller tables were taken, which meant we were left choosing between a table with six chairs or the love seat.

Miller went for the love seat, and I wasn’t sad about that. We’re both relaxed into the couch, our heads pressed into the back of the cushions, facing each other. I’ve pulled my legs onto the love seat, and Miller has one leg propped up.

Our knees are touching.

Most of Starbucks has cleared out by now, and my drink is almost empty, but we haven’t stopped talking and laughing, not even for a few seconds. This version of us is so different than when we were in his truck earlier but just as comfortable.

It just feels natural with him. The silence, the conversation, the laughter. All of it feels so comfortable, and that’s something I didn’t even know I’d been missing. But I have missed it. Since the moment of the wreck, everything in my life has felt like it’s edged in sharp corners, and I’ve been tiptoeing around this world in the dark for the past month, trying not to injure myself.

We haven’t talked about his breakup, despite my curiosity about what happened. I was hoping we would avoid talking about the wreck and all that has transpired since then, but he just asked me how my mother is doing.

“Okay, I guess.” I down the last sip of my coffee. “I walked in on her trying to tear down the kitchen door with a hammer for no reason at all. Now there’s a huge random hole in the center of our door that’s been there for two weeks.”

Miller smiles, but it’s an empathetic smile. “What about you?” he asks. “Any destruction on your part?”

I shrug. “Nah. I’m okay. I mean . . . it’s only been a little over a month. I still cry every night. But I don’t feel like I can’t get out of bed anymore.” I shake my empty coffee cup. “Acquiring a taste for coffee helped.”

“Want another one?”

I shake my head and set my cup on the table next to me. Then I reposition myself on the couch to get more comfortable. Miller does the same, so we’re even closer now.

“Will you do me a favor?” I ask him.

“Depends on what it is.”

“When you become a famous director someday, will you make sure the coffee cups actually have liquid in them when actors hold them in scenes?”

Miller laughs at this. Loudly. “That is my biggest pet peeve,” he says. “They’re always empty. And when they set them down, you can hear the hollowness of the cup when it hits the table.”

“I was watching this one movie where an actor was angry, holding a cup of coffee, and he was slinging it around, but not a single drop spilled. It pulled me out of the moment and ruined the entire movie for me.”

Miller smiles and squeezes my knee. “It’s a promise. Every coffee cup on my set will be full.” His hand remains on my knee. It’s too obvious to pretend I don’t notice, but I try. I keep glancing down, though. I like seeing his hand there. I like feeling his thumb brush back and forth.