I suck back another long, deep drink. Liquid courage at its finest. Cav watches me, not missing my actions. I release the straw and trace a pattern into the condensation forming on the glass.
“I guess I’m not used to seeing other women’s hands on you in public. You know, outside of a red carpet photo.”
Instantly, I wish I used different words because now he knows I’ve been following his career. If he only knew that he is one of my top guilty Google searches. I haven’t been able to stop myself from typing his name into the search bar at least once every other week or so after he first appeared on the big screen.
That first movie poster on the side of a bus almost caused my death when I stepped into oncoming traffic to get a closer look. Watching the face of the man you put out of your mind—because he disappeared without a good-bye or a fuck-you—roll by on a bus while you’re pausing at a crosswalk isn’t something I recommend.
I made it to my office, my heart pounding and hands shaking, and logged in to my computer and waited for the browser to load. It was a measure of just how flustered I was that I didn’t even think to use my phone. Maybe I knew I needed to see the results on a regular-sized monitor.
Sure enough, there he was. The man who is now watching me across the table, trying to gauge my mood based on my body language and words.
“It’s not a big deal, Greer. The blonde said I looked like I could be some kind of action hero, so I took a minute to kill their dreams and told them that I was a fertilizer salesman from Tulsa. I couldn’t think of anything less interesting than a guy selling shit for a living.”
I choke back a laugh, glad I wasn’t sucking down my drink in earnest at that moment. “That’s your cover story? Fertilizer salesman from Tulsa? Wow.”
This time I do reach for my mango deliciousness, giggling as I sip.
Cav shrugs. “It works. Their hands were gone pretty damn quick after that. Shit isn’t a sexy business.”
“Where did you even get that?”
He lifts his beer to his lips, as if unsure where that random-as-hell answer came from. When he lowers the Belikin to the table, his answer surprises me.
“My dad used that one when I was growing up.”
Confusion has me pausing before taking another drink. “Why did your dad lie about what he did?”
Cav twists the bottle in his hands. “He didn’t always like to share the whole story. Said it was no one’s business.”
More confusion and more questions bombard me, but he doesn’t offer anything more. “Are you going to elaborate on that?”
He shakes his head and tips the rest of his beer back, swallowing it down. “Nope, because we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to have fun and live in the now. After all, if we’re sticking to what you wanted, we would’ve already had all these getting-to-know-you conversations.”
Irritation flares to life instantly. “Well, if you hadn’t disappeared three years ago, standing me up and leaving me wondering if you were dead, maybe I would know the answers. But you can’t even give me that—the reason you left. I mean, what the hell, Cav? I deserve some sort of explanation.” All the bitterness I’ve been holding on to for three years leaks into my tone like acid.
Cav sets the beer bottle on the table with a whack. “Not tonight, Greer.”
“Is that another one of your rules? Did I just make it easier for you to avoid answering the question because of my silly little fantasy where we can both pretend you didn’t kick me in the gut by leaving?”
His expression shutters, but not before I see pain flash across his features. He doesn’t like knowing he hurt me. Well, guess what? I didn’t like being hurt, so I figure that makes us even. I’ve had a lot more time to dwell on it, though.
He presses both elbows to the table and leans toward me. “Are you ever going to be able to let that go? Are you always going to hold it over me?”
I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Would you let it go without some kind of explanation?”
His expression sets into harsh lines when he says, “There are some things you’re better off not knowing.”
Uncrossing my arms, I reach for my drink and lift it in salute. “Cheers to being so delightfully vague. You should definitely win a medal.”
Before Cav can reply, the errant waitress returns with two bottles of water and a tray of food. Conch ceviche and a dozen shrimp and lobster tacos.
The food smells delicious, but my stomach is still knotted. Instead of reaching for the food, I thank her and ask for another drink.
Cav watches me as he piles tacos and ceviche onto his plate. “What would you like?”
“Booze,” I reply, my tone as snotty as I’ve ever heard it.
His eyes narrow. “Am I going to have to fuck this attitude out of you? Because I will. I fucking promise I will.”