She clenched her jaw. “Fine. If you must know, I’ll tell you. But it’s the same thing every time: you stringing them along, making them think they have a chance with you, then turning around to be a complete dick! And for your information, Tristan, I don’t need to check my sources. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It’s not like it’s a big secret; you display your dirty laundry out for everyone to see!”
He swam toward her, taking only two strokes to cross the distance. His bare chest pressed against her legs, his eyes wide as though he needed her to see him. “You’re wrong. You think just because someone gets hurt that’s my fault? It may sound arrogant, but I can’t prevent a girl from falling in love with me.” He shook his head. “I can’t prevent her from climbing in my bed, loving me. But they only think they love me, Sam. They don’t. Just like you, they hardly know me… They love the idea of me. The fairy tale version that’ll never exist. They convince themselves they love me, and that’s not my fault.”
His arms relaxed a little, but he stayed right there, looking into her eyes, never faltering. “If I’m nice, if I smile the wrong way, or God forbid give them my phone number, I’m suddenly leading them on, and it’s bullshit.”
He pushed off her legs, turning to lean his back on the fallen branch. “Jenny and I kissed one time at a party. We were both drunk and I kissed her.” He looked over. “Does that mean I owe her my future?”
She swallowed. She’d never been spoken to this way before. Yet she’d never thought of it from his perspective either. She didn’t even know any of these girls, but she’d believed everything they’d said without question. She’d believed everything passed around the gossip circles she normally tried to stay out of. But now, hearing his side of things, all he had told her that she’d never considered, she couldn’t even blame him for being angry.
She thought about Steven, about him declaring his love four years ago, after knowing her for two weeks. How he wanted more, even though she’d only been a friend to him. That wasn’t her fault. Yes, you can’t help the people you fall in love with, but you also can’t help the people who fall in love with you. She looked down at her fingers, shaking her head both at the fact she’d judged him unfairly, but also because she agreed with him. “No,” she finally whispered. “You don’t owe her anything.”
His brow lifted as though her admission surprised him, and he turned to face her, studying her, as though wondering if what she said was what she really believed. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and rough, almost a whisper. “Do you forgive me?”
She tilted her head to the side, the corner of her mouth lifting involuntarily because after all that, he’d brought it back full circle. After all that, he wasn’t asking her for the apology he probably deserved. He was asking for her forgiveness. Because he didn’t dwell on who wronged him. He worried more about how he’d wronged her.
“Yes.”
Present Day
“Do you want to go first, or should I?”
Samantha’s face was red with exertion, her back already aching under the weight of the sculpture. They’d only just made it into the living room, which meant they still needed to make it down the stairs, through the courtyard, and to the front of the building where his car was parked. “You,” she said on a winded breath. “I’ll follow.”
He nodded quickly, silently agreeing with her decision, and turned around, carefully easing his back into the stairwell. He adjusted his grip on the bubble wrap, lifting the sculpture around a sharp corner like a professional furniture mover, and took the first step backward down the stairs. “Easy now.”
She followed after him, her jaw flexed with the weight pulling at her shoulders. But she wouldn’t let him see her struggle. Not now, not ever. Even it if ripped her arms right out of their sockets.
They shuffled down the steps one at a time, through the courtyard, and to the front of the building. He finally lowered the sculpture to the ground a few feet away, where Samantha released the weight, maybe with a little more oomph than she’d intended, and stepped backward.
She pulled in a few deep breaths before standing, replenishing the oxygen she’d lost on the flight downstairs.
“You’re stronger than you look, Smiles.” He grinned, pulling his keys from his front pocket and hanging them on his finger. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Samantha straightened, resisting the urge to snatch the keys out of his cocky hand. She looked down the row of cars, inwardly cringing at how much farther they still had to go. “Which one’s yours?”
His lips lifted. He stepped forward shaking his head and unlocked the door to the light blue ’67 Ford Mustang just in front of them.
She vaguely remembered it—from long ago. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“About what?” he asked.
“About that.” She gestured her chin toward the car. “We’re not driving all the way to New York in that—are we?”
He moved to lean his hip against the taillight, and placed a pair of aviator glasses on his face. “That’s the plan, sweetheart. Is that a problem?”
She pressed her lips together at the endearment. “We’re driving over three thousand miles,” she stated. Reasonable. Let’s all be reasonable. “In a car that’s fifty years old?”
“And?”
“Don’t you think it would be wise to take a more reliable form of transportation?”
He shrugged.
Oh, dear God! She turned toward her apartment and wiped her hand over her face. “You know what—here, let me get my car. It’s not very big, but—”
“Greta”—he tapped hard on the back fender of the Mustang—“hasn’t let me down yet.” He popped the trunk, lifting it all the way open. “I’ll ignore the fact that you insulted her.”
Samantha narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding with the need to punch him. “You’re just as sweet as I remember.”
He huffed out a laugh, pulling the glasses from his face, and resting one finger on his bottom lip. “Oh yeah? And what do you remember, Samantha?”
6
Chapter Six
Six years earlier
“Hang on, Sam, a little bit longer, we’re almost there.”
Samantha clung onto Tristan’s neck, their heads bobbing up and down from each pull of his breaststroke. How he’d convinced her to do this was beyond her. She’d never even touched Tristan before, and now only the thin, wet fabric of her bathing suit separated them from being skin to skin.
Maybe it was guilt that made her agree. Guilt over believing every bad thing she’d ever heard about him since middle school. Or maybe it was because the thought of making it back by means of the tree branch made her bottom ache… But if she was being honest with herself, being this close to Tristan Montgomery made her feel alive. He did something to her, something exciting and nerve racking. But it wasn’t just that. He made her think, he challenged her in every way possible, and she loved it.