“Okay,” she answers, her head turned down.
With my lips pressed together, I nod and walk toward the front door, itching to say something. I want to clear the air. I want to let her know I’m sorry, that what I did was for her.
I have my hand on the knob to the front door when I turn toward her. “I’m sorry, Amelia.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t.”
“Amelia—”
Her eyes snap up to me, fury filling them up. “I said don’t, Aaron. What happened is over with, it was three years ago, and I’ve chosen to forget about it . . . forget about you.” She swallows hard as silence stretches between us. Never once did I forget about her; there was no way I could, not when she’s the one who still owns my heart. Clearing her throat, she says, “This just happens to be an inconvenient coincidence and that’s it. I’m not looking to reconnect or hash out the past.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “It would be too painful.”
Fuck.
A monstrous ache clenches my chest, seizing the breath from my lungs. I so desperately want to tell her how sorry I am, how much I still think about her, but taking her in right now, I know it would be selfish. She’s moved on, she’s doing well for herself, so I need to stay out of her way and let her live her life.
I sigh deeply, defeat in my shoulders. “I understand. I’m sorry if I crossed a line. Let me know if you need anything.” With one last goodbye, I say, “Pizza around the corner is good, but I know you’re a Nirchi’s nut, so the one on Front Street is the closest. Price Chopper is just up the road along with a gas station and Dunkin’. There is a park down the road with some good running paths, not sure if you still like to run.”
“I do,” she answers softly.
“It’s safe down there, and it’s about a mile from here so you can get in a good run. And Halloween is in a few weeks. We have lots of trick-or-treaters, so stock up.” I open the door. “I think that’s it. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
I make my way back to my house and pull out my phone. I text both my boys at the same time.
Aaron: Alcohol, now. Reardon’s in ten.
I press send and go into my house for my car keys. Someone will be driving me home tonight, that’s for damn sure.
***
I’ve downed two shots and a tumbler of whiskey by the time Racer and Tucker show up. The House of Reardon, our go-to bar, isn’t very far from where we all live, kind of in the middle, but given my race to get some alcohol into my system, I’m a few drinks in already.
“I brought reinforcements,” Racer says as he tosses a box of Swiss Rolls in front of me. I can always count on Racer to bring Little Debbie snacks, our sacred lover. “Your text made it seem like you needed to suckle at Debbie’s teet tonight.”
“I do.” I rip open the box, tear open a wrapper, and pop an entire roll in my mouth in seconds.
“I guess so,” Racer says, a little astonished.
“Tucker close?”
“Right here,” Tucker says, pulling up a chair next to me at the bar. He pats my shoulder and tosses a box of Zebra Cakes in front of me. My boys know me well.
“Zebra Cakes? Dude, I brought Swiss Rolls. Zebra Cakes are piss when it comes to times like this.”
“It’s all I had left. Emma’s been eating all my Nutty Bars.”
“Why even buy Zebra Cakes? You know that frosting turns into a paste.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Tucker run his hand over his face. “Emma got them. When she shops, she literally doesn’t consider which ones she buys; it’s just a sweep of her arm over the shelf. Can’t complain about that.”
“I guess you can’t.” Racer becomes less defensive. “I have to sneak my Debbies past Georgie. She says they’re making her fat, which is not even close to true. When she sees a box or even a wrapper in the house, she yells at me . . . and then asks for one.” Tucker and Racer laugh together as I grow more and more irritated.
“Can we not talk about Emma and Georgie right now?” I grit out, my hands holding my face in frustration.
Tucker and Racer quiet and I feel their gazes on me. It’s very out of character for me to act like a dick, especially when it comes to their girls, but hearing about their love lives isn’t sitting well in my stomach right now.
Racer calls to the bartender. “Three glasses of whiskey please.” He turns on his stool to face me and asks, “What’s going on, man?”
Releasing my face, I play with my empty glass and say, “I met my new neighbor today.”
“From the sound of your voice and the need to imbibe alcohol, I’m going to assume you know this person,” Tucker says, facing me as well.
I nod. “It’s Amelia.”
Racer and Tucker didn’t know me when Amelia and I were together, but they’ve heard about her on many drunken nights. Just like I knew about Tucker’s ex, Sadie, and Racer’s debts. We’ve shared everything with each other over bottles of booze and Little Debbie snacks. Tonight is no exception.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Racer says, astonished. Believe me, so am I. “The Amelia, the girl you let go?”
I nod, plopping the other Swiss Roll from the package in my mouth, only to follow up with opening the Zebra Cakes. I don’t care about the film. I’ll eat them all.
“Shit,” Tucker mutters. “Did she recognize you?”
I sarcastically laugh. “The second she saw me. I haven’t changed much from when I last saw her, just probably added fifty pounds of muscle.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing really. I kept it cordial. Told her about the house, neighborhood, and helped her move boxes into the house.”
“Fuck, that sounds awkward,” Racer says.
“Yeah, that’s an understatement.” I lean back in my chair just as the bartender hands us our drinks. Without even a second thought, I down the entire thing and place the glass back on the bar. “She looked so damn good.” My voice cracks from the confession.
She did. She looked just like the girl I fell in love with so many years ago, but this time, she had a sense of maturity wrapped around her. Her caramel hair was longer and in waves, her olive skin just as smooth as I remembered, and those hazel eyes of hers once again split me in half. And fuck, her curves, from her ample breasts, to her curvy ass, I wanted nothing but to feel them, to memorize her body all over again.
“Shit, I’m sorry man.” Tucker calls over the bartender. “Three shots . . . and keep them coming.”
“I tried to tell her I was sorry.” I shake my head from the idiotic attempt.
“Tried?” Racer asks as he opens all the little Debbie snacks and piles them on top of the Zebra Cake box. We start to take down the pyramid of confectionary sugar, one mouthful at a time.
“She shut me down before I could even explain. Told me to drop it. Told me she was over me and didn’t want to hash out the past.” Our past. I run my hand through my hair. “Pretty much told me she’s forgotten about me.”