Say You Still Love Me(37)

The sort of thing that strangers do. Not friends. Not even acquaintances. And definitely not what we used to be.

I swallow against the ball of disappointment growing in my throat. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“I think it’s best for everyone involved.” He takes a step back. “Have a great day, Miss Calloway.” He shifts around me and strolls toward the desk, his steps even and slow.

I absently paw at the elevator button again and hear the ding to announce another available car, but I don’t move, my feet weighted in place, my gaze locked on Kyle’s retreating back.

It happens just as he’s edging past Gus to take his seat. He turns and our eyes meet, and thirteen years seem to evaporate in the air between us.

Christa was right, after all.

Kyle may not have forgotten me, but he doesn’t seem to want to remember us.




With my heels kicked off and my feet propped on a cardboard filing box, I quietly watch the last rays of sun creep over the Marquee building. Its rooftop is just visible. We had the hotel signage removed as soon as the deal closed on the building. Now it sits idle, the first few floors boarded up to keep out riffraff, giving vermin free rein inside.

Maybe Christa’s right and I shouldn’t give Kyle a second thought.

Or maybe I should hate him.

For breaking my heart thirteen years ago.

For treating me so callously last Friday.

For wanting to keep me at arm’s length today.

But right now, all I have inside me are questions.

“Heading home soon?”

I spin in my chair to find my father standing in the doorway. He’s swapped his pinstripe power suit and tie for a crisp white collared shirt—the top two buttons open—and a beige linen blazer and khaki pants. The subtle sandalwood aroma of his aftershave wafts in.

“Soon. But more important, where are you off to, Don Juan?”

The right corner of his mouth quirks. “A dinner meeting.”

Dad never goes to business meetings without a tie.

“You need to trim two months on the Marquee’s revised timelines—”

“I know,” I say. “I’ve already asked Tripp to have his team tighten it. He said he’d have something to me by the end of the week. I’m pushing for an eleven-week reduction.”

“Oh.” My dad nods slowly, a flash of satisfaction crossing his face. “Good.” He drags his fingertips along his chin in thought. I note the smoothness, even from here. Whoever he’s meeting, he shaved in his office’s restroom for her. “You and Tripp seem to be playing nice?”

“Seems so.” I grit my teeth through an innocent smile. Tripp spent the two-hour meeting this afternoon glowering at me from across the table as Serge walked me through the revised plans post city approval. If looks could kill, I’d be split open on a spit and roasting right now.

“Interesting . . .” Dad’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t think being told to shove a golf club up his ass would motivate him so well.”

Shit.

Of course the piglet went squealing all the way home.

I take a deep breath, set my shoulders, and brace myself for a tongue-lashing.

“I know you think I’m hard on you, and demanding. And maybe I am. But everything I do—everything I’ve ever done over the years—I’ve done only with your best interest at heart. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Dad. I do.”

He sighs heavily. “Don’t stay here too late.”

“I won’t. Promise. Enjoy your dinner.”

He makes a sound and turns to leave.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Hmm?” His eyebrows rise in question.

“Please tell me this one’s at least forty?”

The smirk on his lips as he walks out doesn’t bring me comfort.





Chapter 8t



THEN


2006, Camp Wawa, Week One

“Ready for your first full day in the best place in the world?” Darian shouts, her diminutive stature looking especially grandiose from atop the picnic table. The morning sunlight is creeping over the tree line behind her, causing squints and hand-shields as both counselors and campers look on, their cereal dishes empty and forgotten.

No! I want to yell back. I could kill for a caffeine hit right now.

Darian wasn’t lying when she said yesterday would be long. Kyle and I came back from the cliff just in time to hitch the trailer to the golf cart and speed back to the pavilion. No one but Eric and Ashley seemed to realize that we’d left in the first place, and Ashley promised me she wouldn’t say a word to anyone, right before she asked why my clothes were damp.

We were shoveling our hot dogs into our mouths when the first round of children started arriving, a full hour early. Kids as young as eight and as old as fifteen piled out of their parents’ cars, many searching for familiar faces and gleeful when they found them. There were also a few with scowls and glossy eyes, pleading to go home as their frazzled parents marched them up to the registration desks.

Since then, it’s been controlled mayhem. Greeting, smiling, identifying, collecting, and leading kids to their respective cabins like proverbial ducks, refereeing them as they fought over top versus bottom bunk, getting them to the various orientation and ice-breaker activities, coaxing them into eating their vegetables, ensuring they didn’t burn their little fingers on marshmallows, and reminding them to brush their teeth and use the bathroom before lights-out, otherwise it’d be a trek in the night to the facilities.