God, I feel sick. “Sure, my lips are sealed.”
“Appreciate that.” His eyes move over my shoulder, and the waitress appears with our breakfast.
She sets a stack of pancakes in front of me that’s over six inches tall. I motion to his plate. “Here, have a pancake. I can’t eat all these.”
He forks one off my plate, and my heart clenches at how we must look to an outsider: like a real couple who orders for each other and shares what’s on their plates. The smell of warm dough, butter, and maple syrup makes my mouth water, and I’m suddenly ravenous after our calorie-burning activities from last night.
“Eve Dawson, is that you?”
I drop my fork and whirl around at the familiar voice. “Mrs. Lutich!”
A smile lights her face. “It is you!”
I jump out of my seat, and she wraps me in a warm hug. She’s always given the kind of hugs that feel like a warm blanket. The kind I’d want to hang out in it all day.
“I haven’t heard from you in over a year.” She pulls back and studies my face. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you.” She must age, but I swear her sweet face and perfectly highlighted, shoulder-length blond hair look the same as they did all through high school.
“You stopped emailing me.” One eyebrow lifts over her stylish glasses.
“I’m sorry. Things got crazy; life happened.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s supposed to happen.” Her eyes move to Cameron, and I remember my manners.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I motion to him, and he slides out of his seat. “Cameron, this is my high-school science teacher, Thia Lutich.”
He shakes her hand with a warm smile that, if I’m not mistaken, makes her blush. “Thia, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Mrs. Lutich, this is my, uh . . .” What is he exactly? “My friend, Cameron Kyle.”
“Mr. Kyle, it’s nice to meet you. You look familiar. Did you go to North Mountain High too?”
“No, ma’am. I grew up on the east coast.”
“Cameron is the new president and CEO of the Universal Fighting League. You probably recognize him from the newspaper.”
His body goes rigid. Was I not supposed to tell anyone that we’re friends? I thought he said only Jonah and Raven, but maybe I misunderstood? Dammit.
Mrs. Lutich studies him. “Hmm, I don’t follow sports, but maybe you’re right. Anyhoo, I don’t want to keep you two from your breakfast, but when I realized it was you, I had to say hi.”
“Yes, I’m glad you did.” I give her one last hug, not wanting to let go. I didn’t even realize how much I missed her until now.
After my mom left, my dad blamed me. He was angry and insisted on exercising his anger frequently. It wasn’t until Raven and Mrs. Lutich that I realized love was shown in ways that didn’t leave marks or make me cry. “I’ll write you soon.”
“I hope you do.” She waves to Cameron and strolls out of the restaurant.
“Nice lady.”
I slide back into my seat. “She’s amazing. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”
“Amazing you guys stayed in touch all these years.” He forks a piece of sausage into his mouth.
“The first two years after graduation I was religious about keeping in touch.” The waitress stops at our table to silently refill our coffee. “Thank you.” I rip open three sugars. “This last year I stopped. All the stuff that happened with Raven . . . I knew she’d want to talk about it and—what?”
Sometime between the waitress refilling our coffee and now, he’s managed to put down his fork, lean in, and hit me with a glare that has my nerves prickling. The air between us is practically charged with his anger.
“How old are you?” His words are spoken so low they rumble.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I think back over what I said and a tremor of panic skates up my spine. “What do you—?”
“Simple question. How old are you?” He emphasizes every word.
I told him I was twenty-four that night at The Blackout. Shit! My teeth rake over my lower lip, and I move pieces of pancake around with my fork.
“Yvette.”
My eyes dart to his and my stomach plummets. “What did you call me?”
“Answer me.” His jaw pulses.
I set down my fork and pull my purse into my lap like a shield. My heart races, and my stomach twists in knots. There’s no getting out of this. I look him in the eyes, and it’s almost impossible to see the whites through the tiny slits of his glare. “I’m twenty-one.”
“Fuck!” He shoves his plate hard enough that it slams into mine.
“I’m sor—”
He holds up his hand. “You lied to me.”
I swallow, my throat dry and achy. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Would you’ve given me a chance if you knew my real age?”
“Given you a chance?” He leans in. “By that do you mean would I have fucked you?”
I shouldn’t be surprised at the callousness of his words, but I hold my breath and nod.
“No.”