It only takes a second to spot him up ahead, hot on Gretchen’s heels. I break into a jog and breeze past him, but I don’t slow down until I reach Gretchen. As I come up beside her, I take her by the hand, matching her stride.
Gretchen’s head whirls to me. Shock morphs into confusion as she takes in my face. Her gaze lowers to where I’ve intertwined our fingers. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“That drunk guy followed you up here,” I answer, tone flat as I push down thoughts of how simply holding her hand sends an exhilarating rush of energy on a one-way course straight to my heart. Does she feel that too?
Gretchen draws us to a stop. Together, we look over our shoulders to find Tweedle Dumb Drunk has reversed course and is headed in the opposite direction.
“So, what?” She turns back on me. “You thought I was gonna be assaulted? Here? There’s hundreds of people around!”
My jaw slackens before I clamp it shut a second later. I survey the busy concourse area bustling all around us. She’s absolutely right; there are people everywhere. Only an idiot would try something with this many witnesses around. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past the guy; he seems like idiot material.
“Or you thought he’d stand in that line with me”—she points to the mass of women forming a line outside the entrance to the bathroom—“and then feel me up in one of the stalls?”
The onslaught of mental images of my own hands on her, my palm gliding over smooth skin, her body pressed against that balcony wall, invade my mind. I blink them away.
Anger flashes in her eyes as she waits for me to respond, but I’ve forgotten how to speak. “I don’t need you to rescue me, Connor. You can’t just show up and act like things are norm—” She stops herself, the words stuck in her throat.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just…” The anger in her gaze a moment ago is gone. In its place is something even worse: indifference. I swallow thickly. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. But you’re right. I’m sorry.” Her mouth twitches. “I’m sorry,” I say again, quieter this time, pleading.For everything.
One…two…three breaths. The thoughts moving through that beautiful, perfect, overanalyzing brain of hers paint themselves over her features. The dart of her eyes across my face, the crease pushing and pulling between her brows, the lips that can’t decide if they want to scowl or frown.
Unbidden, our eyes simultaneously drift down to where our fingers remain woven together. My thumb moves in slow circles over her knuckles. Her hand squeezes mine so tight I can feel the pulse thundering through her palm.
Her grip loosens, throat bobbing before she whispers, “You can let go of my hand now.”
Chapter Six
IT FEELS LIKE THEN AGAIN
Gretchen
Confession:I went into today expecting a few awkward interactions with Connor, but mostly I’d planned to avoid him. Then, I swung open Drew’s door and he smiled at me.
In an instant, I relived every FaceTime call. Every late night conversation where we talked about everything and nothing. All the times he made me laugh so hard I cried.
That flicker ofthenhad me smiling back, thenowforgotten.
Being seated next to Reagan was the distance I needed to regain a level head. I didnotneed to be in proximity to Connor with all his chivalry and backwards ball cap.
I knew the drunk guy followed me up the stairs. My fist was primed for a punch to his face when I felt a strange hand in mine. But it was Connor. He was there, our fingers intertwined, and a rush of emotions careened through me. A million feelings at once: I was annoyed, shocked, confused, angry, disappointed…safe.
By the time I exit the bathroom, something new clamps around my chest, its claws digging in: guilt. Regardless of all that’sunresolved between us, I overreacted to what was simply a sincere attempt to protect me.
Drew has taken my seat next to Reagan, arm thrown around her shoulders, which leaves me next to Connor. He doesn’t look up as I settle down into the seat beside him. The empty chairs next to Drew are a sure indicator that the drunk guys must have left.
We watch in silence as a few pitches are thrown and a batter strikes out, sending the game into the fourth inning.
Hands between my knees, I playfully lean into Connor’s shoulder, bouncing myself off him. He turns and a reluctant, regret-laced smile unfolds across his face before he nudges me back. I angle myself away from Drew and Reagan, pressing close so only Connor can hear me when I say, “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. You were right,” he whispers.
“No…I mean, yes. I was right.” I give him a sly smile. “But you were only trying to help and I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” I pause for a beat, throat tight. “I guess I’m confused?—”
Connor lurches to an upright position, eyes swinging to the row in front of us—to Drew. It’s not the time or place for this conversation.
The moment sobers and I shake the cobweb of thoughts away. “Whatever, just…I’m sorry,” I sputter out before I turn away and pretend to care about a baseball game.
During the seventh inning stretch,Connor announces he’s headed to the concession stand. After collecting Drew and Reagan’s orders, he turns to me.
