“There’s this guy, someone I think you know, actually.” I blow out a breath, letting the wind take it away. “I really like him, Brady. He’s handsome and kind and all the things I wanted in a man. But he lied to me about you. And I don’t know if I can trust him, although my heart says I can. But what does it know? You said to always trust your heart, but it’s the one organ I’m starting to question.”
My fingers hold on to the elephant around my neck as I pad across the sand.
The sun comes out from behind a big, fluffy cloud and shines on my face. I know I’m right. For the first time, I know I can’t trust him and things between us will never work out. Whether that’s fair or not, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.
I turn up the beach and head to my car parked in the lot on the cliff. Once there, I hop inside and see my phone displaying a missed call. My heart sinks when I see it’s Fenton.
I hold it in my hands, trying to decide whether to call him back or not. I want to, the thought of hearing his voice is like a Siren’s call, yet I just decided it was better to just write him off.
Before I can decide, it rings in my hand again and I can’t help myself. I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Brynne?” His voice is muffled, like he’s talking through a sweatshirt.
“Yes. Fenton? What’s going on?”
“Hang on.” After a little rustling, everything clears. “Sorry about that. I basically have to stand on one foot to get good reception,” he sighs. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Yours too,” I smile. It sounds just like I remember it—smooth and warm like cashmere, although a little more tired since the last time I heard it. I wonder what he’s been doing and who he’s been with, and if he’s been happy or sad or working. “I called you yesterday.”
“I got your message this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was busy.”
I wait for it to rub me the wrong way, but it doesn’t. I hope he was busy trying to find Brady, but I don’t ask. I don’t want to spoil the moment because, right now, I don’t hate him.
“Will you meet me for dinner tonight?” he asks.
My breath hitches in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself not to blurt out that I will. Because I shouldn’t. It’ll make things worse.
“Please, Brynne,” he pleads. “I know where you’re coming from and I understand. Just . . . give me an hour to talk. I want to talk, do you get what I’m saying? I want to tell you things, explain things. And after that, if you don’t want to hear from me again, that’s up to you. But hear me out. Please.”
“Okay,” I breathe before I can change my mind.
“Be at Ruma at six. Unless you need a ride and in that case—”
“No,” I interject. “I’ll be there at six.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
“I’ll be there.”
There has been an air of urgency this evening. Presley had to basically dress me, do my hair, and put me into my car. I couldn’t function because all I could do was flip out that I was seeing him again, and then flip out again because I felt like I shouldn’t be. I’m a walking, talking, stumbling heap of confusion and I can’t force any of the puzzle pieces in front of me to go the right way.
The valet whisks me inside Ruma so quickly I can barely keep up. My heart is pounding so hard and loud that by the time we reach the door to the private room, I can only see the server’s mouth move; I can’t hear anything she says. She swings the door open, her lips moving and then twisting into a smile, and I step across the threshold. The door creaks shut behind me.
Fenton’s already here. His clean, spicy scent floats breezily through the air, a complete contradiction to the tornado I feel inside.
He comes around the corner and I literally can’t breathe. I force the air in and out, make myself remember that I have to have air or else I’d just pass out.
Talk about contradictions—this is it. He’s in deep grey dress pants and a white button-up shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, giving him a look of casualness. But I know the look in his eye, the way they crinkle at the corners, the way his lips are pulled tight—he’s not feeling carefree in the least.
He doesn’t peruse my body like he once did. He doesn’t try to remove my clothes, make me combust under his gaze. Instead, his eyes plead with mine, burn into me with all the angst he’s apparently holding inside.
I remind myself not to cave. That things between us are different now and they’ll never be the same. They won’t. They can’t. And as much as I want to run to him, press my face against his chest and feel his arms wrap around me, that’s impossible now.
Fenton starts to speak but catches himself. With a slight shake of his head, like he’s unsure what to say or how to act, he takes a couple of tentative steps towards me.
“How are you?” I ask, my voice pitchy.
“Fine,” he says, extending his hand to mine. “How are you?”