The sound makes something inside of me snap. In the blink of an eye, my pain disappears. The betrayal I was feeling just minutes ago, withers and is replaced with cold fury. I’m not the one who has anything to be ashamed of. Why am I running? My daddy didn’t raise me to run from anything. I’m not going to let him turn me into a coward. He’s stolen enough.
I turn slowly, carefully on the small heel of the pretty, delicate champagne pink Sam and Libby ballet flats. I wore them in hopes that it would soften my distinctly indelicate, unpretty appearance. What a joke. It takes all of my strength to hold my head high and walk down the stairs. Each step took careful concentration. But I did it. I knew when they became aware of me.
Their laughter died off in a trickle, like dominos falling as the one next to it collapsed. Only when I stepped onto the landing where they were gathered do I take my eyes off the step. I don’t even acknowledge the other boys. I just stare at Chuck. His big hazel eyes, with impossibly thick, curling lashes that would have made him pretty, if the rest of his features weren’t so strong. Those eyes that normally smiled at me, were staring at me in what can only be described as horror.
“Maria,” Chuck says, his voice cracking on the last syllable of my name.
“Diarrhea?” I snarl and surprise myself with how strong my voice is.
He winces, but I don’t miss the self-conscience flick of his gaze toward his friends. Even now, he cares what they think. “Listen—”
“No, I’ve heard enough. It’s fine,” I say my voice still holding strong.
“It’s not.”
“Yes, it is. Now I know you’re a terrible person,” this time he flinches like I splashed water into his eyes. I scoff and feel my rage starting to lose some of its cool. “Yeah, I forgot. You think I’m too hard to look at in broad daylight.”
One of his friends snickers and Chuck shoots him a dark glance before he looks back at me. “Listen, that was just—”
“That was how you really feel,” I say quietly and I feel the first prick of tears in the back of my eyes. “Stay away from me. Don’t come to my house. I never want to talk to you again.”
His face pales and his mouth drops open. I step around him and walk down the stairs. I don’t look back, but there’s a part of me that’s hoping he will call my name. Run after me and tell me he’s sorry. But he doesn’t.
I step out of the shower and check my texts. I see his message with the address of a restaurant that’s in my neighborhood. I’m not surprised. The Heights is the new cool kids hang out in Houston. Lots of new restaurants opening up and old ones remodeling and reinventing themselves to fit the hipster, eclectic vibe of this neighborhood.
I take my time and arrive almost thirty minutes later than we agreed. He texted a few minutes ago to say he had ordered us drinks. I sit in my car gathering my composure. I scream when there’s a knock at my window. I smile apologetically and hold up my finger to ask the valet to give me a minute.
I barely register him slipping the claim ticket into my hand. I feel like I’m floating as I walk into the restaurant. Here goes nothing.
Two
CHUCK
When Maria walks in, I have a quick flash of doubt. Will this work? Will she be able to keep up her little charade long enough for me to apologize properly? The memory of that day always sparked a current of shame that I felt in every single pore of my body. I will never forget the look on her face when she had called me a terrible person. She had been right.
When I moved back to Houston last month, I was determined to find her. When I googled her, I found her Facebook profile right away and I remember staring dumbstruck at how beautiful she had become.
I stand up as she and the hostess approach our table. I force a smile even though my heart is racing. I hate not being in control. I hate not knowing what’s coming next. But, I have no choice. “Luscious Cutie Pie?” I ask before I lean forward and brush a kiss across her soft, lightly fragrant cheek.
She’s smiling wryly when I pull away, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her entire face is bracketed by tension.
“It sounds awful when you say it aloud, doesn’t it, CockedandLoaded?”
I grimace at my own awful screen name. “Call me Nicholas,” I use my full name and hide my smile when I see the spark of recognition in her eyes. She was one of the only people who knew it. “Nice to meet you,” I step around her to pull out her chair.
“I was worried that maybe you weren’t coming,” I say honestly. Our waitress appears with two margaritas and sets them down in front of us and slips away.
“Well, you sort of left me no choice. And you can call me Anna,” she picks up her drink and takes a delicate sip. Her lips are the color of dark plums, the lower one has a prominent seam down the middle and when she puts the glass down, her lipstick has left an impression of her mouth on the side of the glass.
“Okay, Anna. You had a choice. We could have stopped talking instead,” I say with a raised eyebrow. She acknowledges the truth of my statement with a small shrug but, doesn’t respond. She reaches for one of the salty tortilla chips that someone dropped off right before she got here and busies herself with piling it with salsa. I watch her hands. They’re still the same. Long fingers, with big broad palms. Her nails are longer and painted the same burgundy as her lips. She’s wearing a dark blue sapphire ring on her right ring finger, but otherwise, her hands are bare.
“I’m glad you’re here. You’re beautiful,” I tell her and her head snaps up. Those eyes, the color of my favorite bottle of brandy, transport me back to the time when we met.
“Thank you,” she says with a tight smile before she turns her attention back to her chips.
“So, here we are,” I say and try to break some of the tension.
“Yeah, here we are.”
“I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised when you wrote. I thought to myself, now that’s the prettiest girl I’ve seen on this app the whole time I’ve been using it. But damn…” I drawl and wait for her to look up again before I continue.
“That picture didn’t do you any justice.” I have to bite my lip to fight the grin that wants to show itself when she blushes and runs and hand absently down the side of her neck. She did that when we were kids, too. When she was nervous or excited. I don’t know which one of those inspired the gesture, but it’s comforting and encouraging to see.
“What’s your biggest regret?” She asks suddenly.
“That’s a heavy question for a first date,” I chuckle nervously.
This time, it’s her cool eyes that are direct and mine that want to hide. I’m prepared for this question. Just, not yet. I thought she was going to try to keep up the same act she’d been playing since we connected two weeks ago. I had planned on being CockedandLoaded until I could see I’d gotten her guard down.
“This is hardly our first date. We’ve been talking online for two weeks,” she says, her gaze not wavering.
“Yeah, you’re right. Well, it’s actually not that hard of a question to answer,” I start slowly and try to make sure I say exactly what I intend.
“Really? Lots of regrets, or none?” she asks.
“Only one,” I say with an expression that I hope is meaningful.
Her eyes widen slightly, and she glances around the restaurant as if to make sure no one can hear her before she leans across the table toward me. Her long red hair spills over her shoulders and the tips brush the top of her hands. I want to reach out and touch it. It’s the most fundamental change in her drastically changed appearance. It used to be dark brown, curly and cut short.
“Well, what is it?” she asks, her voice slightly breathless.
I take a deep breath and go for broke, “Well, I had a friend. A girl. I did something stupid, hurt her feelings and never apologized,” I say and watch her eyes start to soften before she collects herself and turns them into flinty chips of amber again.
“Well, what stopped you from apologizing?”
“My pride. I was a cocky little shit,” I say with a dry, self-deprecating laugh.
She gives me a withering glance and raises her dark eyebrows in blatant skepticism. “And you’re not anymore? Mr. Cocked and Loaded?”