Say You Still Love Me(88)

“And kind of scatterbrained.”

I laugh. “Still is. I like living with her, though. She brings a happy energy to our place.” I feel a nostalgic smile touch my lips. “You know, I always thought she and Eric would end up together. But he never responded to any of her emails.”

“Yeah. He was never good for keeping in touch.”

“It’s too bad. Maybe she would have ended up with him instead of this asshole named Chad.” I give Kyle the rundown.

He’s chuckling by the end of the story. “Sounds like this psychic might have done everyone a favor by convincing her to buy that pee couch.”

“I think you might be right.” I devour my last french fry as I consider this. “So, what about you?”

“I don’t believe in psychics.”

“No.” I chuckle, sensing his intentional diverting of topic. I avert my gaze to my dinner remnants, slowly packing them up. “Girlfriends? Wives?”

“There’ve been a few.”

“A few wives?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Girlfriends, yes. Wives . . . no. I was close once,” he admits.

It feels like a punch to my stomach, hearing that Kyle actually considered marrying another woman. That I was engaged to David doesn’t temper my jealousy. And yet I also want the intimate details. I want to know everything there is to know about all the years of Kyle’s life that I missed—the good, the bad, the painful. “What happened?”

“She wasn’t—” He cuts himself off abruptly, and then sighs. “She wasn’t what I was looking for. What about Christa? How’s she doing?”

“Running a high-end steak house a few blocks from here. Single. Continuing to be right about everything.”

He bursts out laughing and I grin. I forgot how much I like making Kyle laugh.

“But she’s good. She’s my cynical voice of reason most days.”

His lips twist in thought. “And what would that cynical voice say about you sitting here with me?”

I bite my tongue, unsure whether I should just lay it all on the line right away. But this is Kyle, I remind myself. We were always honest with each other. “Basically, that we need to figure out what we mean to each other in today’s world because Wawa is in the past.”

He nods slowly, as if considering that. I can’t read his thoughts, though, and I hate it.

“You’re a lot more direct then I remember you being,” he finally says.

“I’ve learned to be. I kind of have to be, in my world.”

“Yeah, I guess.” His brow furrows.

What’s he trying to say? “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all. It’s just different from how I remember you.” He leans back in his chair, his gaze drifting up to the grandiose arching design of the building’s lobby. “You know, it’s funny, I remember thinking how tough life was that summer. But some things were a lot easier back then.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . .” A slow, nostalgic smile curls his lips. “Finding the nerve to ask the hot girl at summer camp to jump off a cliff with me.”

I feel my cheeks flush. “You definitely didn’t lack confidence back then.”

“I thought I had the world figured out.” He begins fumbling absently with his leather wrist cuff, similar to the one from camp. The one he gave me, which has been tucked into the bottom drawer of my jewelry box for safekeeping all these years.

“Are they still there?” I nod to his wrist. “The numbers.”

He opens his mouth as if to answer, but pauses, his tongue sliding out to skate over the lip ring scar. And then he stretches his arm out to rest his hand on my knee—palm up—and quietly waits.

Like he did so many years ago.

As if offering me the excuse I need to touch him.

I take it without hesitation, gingerly unfastening the leather cuff from his wrist, my cool fingers trembling slightly as they slide over his hot skin; over the two rows of numbers, with several decimal points following each.

“Still your favorite place?” I ask softly, my thumb smoothing back and forth over it, reveling in the fact that I am touching Kyle Miller again.

“It’s hard to say yes, after what happened to Eric.”

“I know. I had nightmares about that day for months after. But he ended up fine.”

Kyle bites his bottom lip, his gaze settling on the numbers. “I still feel guilty sometimes.”

“It wasn’t your fault. He doesn’t blame you, does he? Because if that’s the case, it was just as much my fault. And Ashley’s fault.”

He swallows, his gaze on the desk. “No. He’s never blamed anyone.”

Kyle makes no move to remove his arm from its resting spot over my lap, and so I take the opportunity to study the inside of his sinewy forearm. “When did you get the rest of this done?” His skin has become a canvas of artwork since I last saw him, with shades of green and blue and charcoal gray.

“Over the last couple years.”

It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at.

“Is this . . .” My fingers roam unabashed now, shifting his arm to get a better angle. On the meaty part of his forearm is a pool of water. Within it is a lone figure, bobbing, only the back of his head and arms showing as he looks upward. Waiting.