We lie there for some time staring at the stars that light up the night sky despite the full moon. Crickets chirp around us but there’s not a word spoken between us.
Seconds turn to minutes. Her perfume hits my nose. Our history owns my thoughts. My mind veers to shit I shouldn’t be thinking. Hands off, Whitley. Much easier said than done when I’m lying in the dark with a gorgeous woman.
And she is just that, gorgeous. And all woman. Yet, despite the years that have passed, this feels normal. The being here with her. The feeling that she still knows me better than anyone else when that can’t be possible.
She did back then though. She could finish my sentences. Had loved me unconditionally. Had encouraged me to chase my dreams despite my doubts.
Until I allowed my dreams to consume me. Rip us apart. Leave her.
Leave us.
“Look!” She saves me from my thoughts when she points to a shooting star as it streaks across the sky.
“Make a wish,” we both say in unison and laugh. A throwback to another night, another time, and I feel her body tense the minute she says it. As if she realizes she accidentally let her guard down, but the small moment is enough to break up the tension filling the space around us. Giving me an in.
“I made mine,” she whispers after a few seconds and has me immediately wondering what her wish was. Ten years ago I would have known the answer without question. But not now. Not with the grown woman, so very different but all the same, beside me.
“Me too,” I finally say but know my dreams have already come true—I’m a lucky son of a bitch—so I throw my extra wish her way. Use the lapse in her guard to my advantage. “See that constellation? The one right there?” I point to the sky, to a trio of stars that I make my own pattern out of.
“Like you really know astronomy,” she scoffs, remembering how much it bored me when we were in school.
“No seriously. I do. I had to learn it for a role I played.”
“Is that so?” The exasperated tone is back in her voice and I’m glad to hear it. Annoyed I can deal with much better than sadness. “If that’s the case, then what is that one right there?” I follow her finger as she points to what looks like someone shook a salt shaker filled with glitter to the sky . . . little flecks of bright lights everywhere.
I smile wide knowing exactly what I need to do. I lift my finger and point. “That right there is the constellation named ‘I’m Sorry.’”
Her sigh fills the tree house. “Oh, please.”
“No. Wait. I get the one named ‘I Was a Dick’ confused with the one ‘I’m Sorry’ so give me a minute. Nope. I’m right. That’s definitely, ‘I’m Sorry.’”
“That’s very convenient.”
“First rule of acting is learning how to improvise.” Her laugh fills the night and I might have gotten my foot in the door.
“Seems you’ve got that down pat.”
“I mean it, Saylor. I’m sorry.” The explanations I had worked out in my head die on my lips because they’d just sound like bullshit excuses. I can see that now, so I leave it at that. I hope she hears the apology and knows how much I mean it.
But she doesn’t say anything for a while. Just stares quietly at the stars while I try and figure out what to do next. In reality, I’m perfectly comfortable on this hard wooden floor with my legs folded like a pretzel so I can fit in this small space beside her.
“Mitch’s last name is Layton.” Saylor’s sudden comment surprises me.
“I think I remember him.” How could I not? The popped collar, egotistical, trust fund baby. Even in high school he thought he was better than everyone else. I can’t imagine how he is now. I tread carefully. “How’s he doing?” Feign interest. Pretend I care.
She laughs but the sound isn’t lighthearted. “He’s getting married.” I hesitate in response because I haven’t thought this through far enough ahead, and I’m not sure if I should play that I know this yet or act like I don’t. “And not to me.”
“Oh.” My response is as much shock that she’s just confessed, as it is an act. And I decide to keep quiet. To let her take this conversation where she wants to ease my guilt over lying to her once again.
“Yep.” Her laugh holds no humor at all. “I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t marry him. Over six years, Hayes. Six years down the fricking drain and all because I looked at him and . . . I don’t know.”
“You looked at him and what?” I can’t help it. I have to ask. Have to pry. Have to find out why it sounds like she still loves the prick when she’s the one who broke things off.
That much I do know from Ryder. He had sounded proud as hell of Say when he told me she dumped the sorry ass.