“Now it makes sense.”
“What?” I choke out.
“The instant hatred you had for me. It makes sense. I would’ve acted the same.”
Arms at my sides, I lean forward and press my chest against the table, eyes locked with his. “How did you not know?”
“Who you were?” I nod and lean back. He lifts a shoulder, then drops it. “Guess I just forgot. Does that make me more of an asshole? Probably. But it’s the truth. With the exception of track and my closest friends, high school is just a blur.”
Wish it was a blur for me. Wish there was some way to make all the horrible memories and name calling and stunts vanish. Hypnotherapy. A magic pill. Years of speaking with a therapist helped, but it never made the memories disappear.
But all things happen for a reason.
If it weren’t for those girls bullying me and the guys following their lead, I wouldn’t be who I am now. Without their hurtful words and acts, I may not have thick skin. I may not be as bold and outspoken. Who knows… I could have ended up as some doormat.
There are no pros to bullying. No justifiable reasons to be hateful. But I found strength and courage and ferocity because of my high school experience. Yes, there were definitely some low points, but I had Mom and Dad to help me keep my head high. To not let me drown in the trenches. And for that, I am a new woman.
“One day, I hope it disappears for me too.”
His back stiffens and eyes go wide. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes out.
“Yeah, I know.” He sags against the seat. “What I mean is, I hope enough time passes that I don’t let those memories own me anymore.” I lift the mug to my lips and sip. “What made you remember?”
“Shelly.” I scrunch my brows and tilt my head. “My sister,” he clarifies. “She was two years behind me, one behind you. She went to a different school, but her best friend, and mine, attended ours. And friends talk.”
“Ah.”
“Shelly, my friends, and I get together often. Gavin, my best friend, asked how work with the blonde was.” I perk up at this. “They were in Roar a while back and noticed us barking at each other.” He laughs and I join.
“Our bickering is an art form.”
“Indeed. Anyway, I guess neither Cora nor Shelly had paid attention or were focused on the dance floor that night. They never saw your face. But when I said your first name the other night, they probed me for answers.”
“That must’ve hurt.” I smirk at him.
“Ha ha.” He turns up the corner of his mouth and makes a goofy face. “Then, they took me on a trip down memory lane.” His eyes drift to the table, then back up. “If it makes you feel better, it made me sick. Literally.”
“It doesn’t. But I’m glad you weren’t okay with it. Says a lot.”
“Peyton, I—”
The server interrupts Micah to set plates on the table. Once the buffet is spread out, the server double-checks the carafe, then leaves.
“Peyton, I may not be the best guy out there. I have done plenty of stupid and horrible shit. Shit I’m not proud of. Haven’t we all. But adult me is disgusted by teenage me.”
I break the egg yolk, spear some home fries and dunk them. Micah stares, fascination glittering his eyes as I bring the yolky potatoes to my lips.
“What?” I mumble around my food with zero care for manners.
“That’s cute.”
Cute? Eating food is cute? Or is he mocking how I eat now?
I grab a strip of bacon and crunch down on it. “Define cute.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “Don’t know many other people who do that.” He points his fork at my runny egg. “Break the over-easy yolk to dunk their potatoes.”
“And toast,” I interject.
His head tips back and he laughs before leveling with me again. “And toast.” Inch by inch, he leans closer. Face over the center of the table. “Like me,” he whispers.
I stop chewing. Stop breathing. My body frozen and eyes unblinking as I stare straight ahead. The gold flecks in his rich-blue eyes twinkle. Is he serious? Or just yanking my chain?
“Are you making fun of me?”
A shadow passes over the line of his jaw. His smile flattens out. But that damn twinkle is still there.
“No. Definitely not.” The corners of his lips curve up. “Never again,” he states with reverence.
The muscles in my jaw contract as I chew the remaining bacon. “Good.” I point the last of the bacon strip at him. “Wouldn’t want to hurt you.” Then I shove the bacon in my mouth.
“Might like that,” he mumbles and sits back.
I drop my focus to the table, pick up my toast and dunk the corner of the triangle in the yolk. Peeking through my lashes, I spy a look I have never seen on Micah Reed’s face. A look I never thought him capable of portraying.
Less than three feet away, eyes on his plate, fingers toying with his fork, Micah Reed blushes. At this time of night, others may pass it off as a night of partying or too much alcohol. But the only thing he’s had to drink tonight is Dr Pepper and coffee.
Since our food arrived, I noticed slight variations in Micah’s posture. Less rigidity. His spine not as straight and arms not as stiff. The fidgeting has also tapered off. As if he carries a new level of comfort. With me.
Other hallmarks I notice… more softness. The ridge of his cheekbone and how it accentuates his masculinity. The plumpness of his lips and the way they transform when he looks me in the eye. Firmer edges. The angle of his jaw, the light dusting of stubble, and the straight line of his nose until just the end where it bends slightly left. A gentleness. The way his lashes splay and stick beneath his eyes when on the cusp of crying.
When was the last time I saw a man cry? Saw them spill their emotions for all to see. I don’t recall.
Maybe when I was seven and fell from the tree in the backyard. When Dad rushed from the deck chair, cradled me gingerly in his arms, and asked if there was pain. Was he crying then? The memory is there, but I don’t see his face as clearly as I once did. Not without photographs or home movies.
We finish eating in relative silence. But a new tension builds between me and Micah. A tension I never would have imagined possible with this man. A man who currently has one leg between mine while the other skirts the outside. He has yet to touch me, but I feel how close he is. All it would take is the slightest move from either of us and we’d make contact. And hell… my skin flames from the near touch.
The server clears our plates and leaves the check. And just like last time, Micah snatches it first. He throws me a boyish, flirty smile and I can’t help but smile in return. Once he pays and I leave a tip on the table, we walk toward my car.
Near the hatch, I stop and face him, hands fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. Why does this suddenly feel like the end of a date? This isn’t a date.
Keep telling yourself that, girl.
“Peyton…” Micah stares over my shoulder, but his eyes seem out of focus. Then he blinks and brings his gaze back to mine. “Hope you believed me earlier when I apologized. I meant it. I mean it.”
I nod. “Thank you, Micah. And I do.”