Hello, Goodbye, and Everything in Between(49)

Clare leans forward on the table and fixes him with an even look. “I’m going to tell you the same thing you told me earlier,” she says. “This is not a metaphor.”

His face doesn’t change, so she tries again.

“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a stupid challenge.”

“Yeah, but”—he tosses his paddle onto the table in frustration—“if we beat the record…”

“What?” she asks impatiently.

He lowers his eyes. “Then the whole night won’t just be about us breaking up.”

“Aidan,” she says, softening a bit. “It won’t be. Look how much we’ve done tonight. If anything, it’ll be the night we picked Scotty up from jail. Or the night he gave himself about a thousand tattoos.”

Aidan smiles, but there’s something somber about it. “The rest of it doesn’t matter,” he says. “Trust me. When we look back on tonight, all we’re gonna remember is that we broke up.”

“And you think Ping-Pong will help?”

“Maybe,” he says, and he looks so earnest right now, so sincere, that it’s all she can do to stay on her side of the table. “It could have been the night we set the Ping-Pong record instead.”

She laughs. “You’re crazy if you think that would outrank our breakup. You think I’d look back one day and remember this”—she holds up the ball—“instead of losing you?”

He moves around the table, taking a few slow steps in her direction. “It was worth a try,” he says, closing the space between them. When they’re only a few inches apart, she tips her head back to look at him. “And you’re not losing me. I’m losing you.”

“Either way,” she manages to say around the knot that’s formed in her throat.

He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then lets his hand linger on her neck, and the feel of his skin on hers sends a shot of electricity through her. She can see the couch out of the corner of her eye, and her face prickles with a sudden warmth.

This is the thing about Aidan. This has always been the thing about him. He makes her forget all her reasons and rules and plans.

He makes her forget about everything but him.

“It’d have to be something a lot bigger,” she says, and he widens his eyes in exaggerated astonishment.

“Bigger than hitting a Ping-Pong ball a hundred and eighty-nine times in a row?”

She nods.

“What could be bigger than that?” he says, but even as he does, Clare sees it happen: his gaze falling on the only painting to brighten the concrete walls, a sweeping watercolor of Lake Michigan in the winter, icy and hardened and dusted with snow. When his eyes flick back to her, she’s already shaking her head.

“No.”

He grins. “Yes.”

“No way,” she says more firmly, but it doesn’t matter: He’s already pacing back and forth in excitement.

“It’s perfect,” he says, turning away. “No, it’s epic. Nobody’s ever done it. And there’s no way it wouldn’t be memorable.” He pauses in front of the couch, turning to her with a triumphant look. “It’s just big enough.”

“It’s too big,” she says flatly. “And too stupid.”

“Sorry,” he says, clapping his hands. “It’s a done deal. This is happening.”

“You seriously want to jump into Lake Michigan right now? Think about how cold it will be. And aren’t you tired?”

“Nope,” he says with a laugh. “I’m wide awake.”

Clare’s eyes wander over to the couch again, and then back to Aidan. He’s all lit up by his idea, smiling so hard that the bandage beneath his eye is losing its grip. Something about the sight of him—so eager to make the best of this night—makes her heart swell, and she sets down her Ping-Pong paddle.

“Well,” she says. “Don’t I at least get to suggest something, too?”

He gives her a skeptical look. “There’s no way you have a better idea.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Better than saving Rusty?” he asks, clearly tickled at the prospect. “Not possible.”

“You don’t even want to hear it?”

He shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “There’s literally nothing in the world that I want to do more than save that stupid robot right now.”

“Okay,” Clare says, walking over to the couch, next to where Aidan has stopped his pacing just beside the coffee table. “I’m in.”

“Great,” he says with an officious nod. “Then we should probably get going.”

But just before he can walk away, she reaches out and grabs his hand. He spins around again, the smile slipping from his face, replaced by a look of confusion.

“I’m in,” she repeats, feeling uncharacteristically bold. “But I still think we should try mine first.”

It takes a moment for this to register—the way she’s looking at him, the way her hand is clasped in his—and when it does, his expression changes to one of surprise.

“Oh,” he says, his mouth caught in the shape of the word. His eyebrows shoot up high on his forehead, loosening the bandage further. “Oh.”