“You kind of were, but I won’t tell anyone. Let me grab a sweatshirt real quick because my nipples are harder than stone in this shirt, and then we can walk over together.”
Her eyes go to my shirt quickly before they pop back, realizing she was staring at my pecs. Stare away, babe.
“Hurry up, I don’t have all night.” She crosses her arms over her chest, but the lightness in her voice says she’ll wait for me.
It takes me all but a minute to sprint into my house, run up to my room, grab a sweatshirt, and then meet Amelia outside while I put on my sweatshirt.
“Good Lord that was fast.”
I cringe slightly. “Uh, I’m starving.” I’m not at all happy to spend more time with you, to get at least one more hour with you. Right.
The walk to the diner is slightly awkward; we don’t say much, which makes me nervous, but once we’re seated, I say, “Do you remember that Thanksgiving when we tried to make every dish on our own?” We could both cook okay, but Thanksgiving dishes are in a different league.
“Oh, God. My poor father.” She giggles, and it’s the sweetest sound. “What did he say when he tasted the bean casserole?”
“You have to gently sauté the onions, Bedelia, not burn them to a crisp,” I say in a deep voice, imitating her father.
“Beth didn’t stop laughing for an hour after that. God, we tried so hard. How did we get so many dishes so wrong?” she asks, while wiping tears of laughter from under her eyes.
“The only two who ate everything and didn’t complain were your nephews. They’ll be ladykillers when they’re older. Always eating whatever is put before them.”
When she stops laughing, Amelia leans forward in her chair and says, “So, any women in your life?” She looks genuinely interested, as if we truly are great friends and she’s looking for dirt. Some of the best and long-lasting relationships start as friends, so I take advantage of this moment, not trying to dwell on the shift in the way we have to act around each other.
“Any women? I noticed how you made that plural. Are you assuming I’m a playboy, Miss Santos?” I sit back in my chair, presenting a playful challenge.
She’s not fazed by my question as she shrugs casually. “I just assumed.” She pauses and looks around for a second before she says, “I mean, you wear cut-off shirts now. Only men who carry around a brothel of women in their back pocket wear cut-off shirts.”
“A brothel of women?” My laughs draws the attention of the few diners who share the restaurant with us. “There is no brothel in my back pocket, and you’re so wrong about cut-off sleeves. Mr. Harrison, three houses down, wears cut-off sleeves, and he’s a happily married man.”
Amelia quirks her eyebrow at me. “Have you seen him around the Tai Chi class Mrs. Gossling has on Saturday afternoon in her front yard? Pure player, that Mr. Harrison.”
The thought of Mr. Harrison being a player makes me full-on belly laugh. The man sports a basketball-sized beer belly, has a horseshoe hairdo—you know, where he’s bald on top but has a ring of hair around his head—and he wears Velcro black shoes, even with shorts. He is the farthest thing from a playboy.
“You couldn’t be more wrong about the both of us. If anything, Mr. Harrison and I are the most loyal men on the street. No brothel pockets here.”
“Okay, so any special lady in your life?”
I can’t help it; I ask, “Besides you?”
Her cheeks go red as her eyes cast toward the table. She clears her throat, and says, “Uh, yeah.”
Loving how much I embarrassed her, I say, “Well, let’s see. Mrs. Ferguson is a special lady to me, kind of like a grandma—”
“I meant are you dating anyone. Honestly, why do you always make me say the damn words?”
I chuckle. “It’s more fun that way.” She rolls her eyes. “And for the record, no. Haven’t really been able to move on since you. I’ve had a few short relationships here and there, but that’s it. It’s been impossible to replace you in my heart, Amelia.”
And just like that, our fun conversation is blanketed by a layer of intense confessions. And I’m not fucking sorry about it.
“Oh,” is all she says as the waitress steps to our table.
Awkwardly, the tension thick between us, I order a burger with fries and Amelia gets a cup of clam chowder with a side of cherry pie. Some things never change.
When the waitress walks away, I decide to keep the conversation heavy. I want to dive deep into her feelings. I want to know about the days, the year after we broke up. Even though I know it will kill me, I need to know.
“How long did it take you to get over me?”
She peers up at me, a little surprise in her face from my question. “A long time,” she answers on a long exhale. So, perhaps this relationship with Trey the wonder boy hasn’t been going on long then.
“Did you hate me?”
She nods. “Every day.” That fucking hurts. “But it was a hate love. I loved you so damn much, Aaron, and for you to just rip away the one thing I cared most about”—she shakes her head and plays with the silverware on the table—“I was so furious. That anger turned into hate, but the hate never really took. I wanted to hate you. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted you to suffer as much as I was, but deep down, all I truly wanted was for you to take me back.”
I blow out a long breath as I grip the back of my neck. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Amelia.”
She shrugs. “What’s done is done, right?”
I guess so.
Pressing my lips tightly together, I prepare for my next question. “And this other guy—”
“Trey.”
“Yes, Trey.” His name coming out of my mouth feels like a bunch of razor blades scraping across my tongue. “Is he good to you? Does he treat you well?”
“He does,” she answers somberly.
“Does he treat you better than I did?”
Please say no.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she chews on the side of her lip, her eyes cast down. What is she thinking? Is she comparing me to Trey? Am I winning? Or does Trey take the cake? My assumption? Trey wins. He always wins.
“That’s hard to answer. You’re different.” She sighs. “When we were together, we were spontaneous, kind of crazy; we threw caution to the wind and I felt alive.” She now looks me in the eye. “But with Trey there is order. We live together and our lives have a rhythm. We’re older. We work. Go out. Spend time with friends. It’s . . . good. Aaron, I know you’ve told me why you broke up with me. I get it. I do. But when I met Trey, my studies were going well, and I was breathing again. I missed you and still felt sad and bereft, but I felt more like me again. There was something so familiar about him though, and we clicked. He’s been by my side ever since. I don’t think he would ever hurt me like you did.”
I nod, hating that answer but wondering one thing. “Maybe he won’t hurt you as much as I hurt you because you don’t love him like you loved me.” I stare at her hazel eyes as I say, “The harder you love, the harder you fall.”