I try not to let my surprise show. No one’s asked me why before. They apologize and move on or stand around awkwardly until I change the subject.
Now I’m faced with two options: tell her or avoid it.
If I tell her, how much do I want to tell her? All of it? Bits and pieces? Or should I just avoid it? Since we’re having such a nice evening, avoiding it sounds fantastic. Yet there’s something biting at me, encouraging me to tell Haley my secrets…or at least some of them.
I don’t know if I’m ready. Then again, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
Don’t lie, Gaige. Don’t brush it off. Give her a simple yet honest answer and move on.
Sounds easy enough.
“I, uh…” I lift my free hand, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Family anything wasn’t a big hit. It took my parents a lot longer to grow up than I’d like to admit. I don’t have many fond memories with them.”
“Ouch. That’s…”Here it comes.“Unfortunate. But, hey, at least you’re alive and kickin’, right? You made it as far as—hey, wait. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“See? That’s an accomplishment! You made it twenty-four years without getting yourself killed. Kudos!”
Her smile is big, like she’s proud of herself for turning my shit childhood into something positive. I have to admit—it works. My lips mirror hers, stretching into a wide grin.
“Are you always so happy?”
“You forgetting I cried the first night we met?”
“Yeah, but that was a drunk cry. A lot of people do that.”
“Do you?”
“Nah. I don’t ever let myself get that wasted.”
“I usually don’t either, but it was a special occasion.”
She’s not looking at me anymore, her attention strictly on the wine glass in her hands. She swishes the liquid around then raises the glass, tossing back its contents like a shot. I’m impressed with a side of worried.
I say nothing as she sits back, curls her legs under her ass, and points to the popcorn bowl on the table. “Pass?” she asks.
I oblige and take a sip of my white wine. “Shit, that’s sweet.”
“And tastes like heaven, I know. You’re welcome.”
Sitting back, I grab a handful of popcorn myself. “How is it the other night you were drinking vodka sodas and throwing back shots like they were going to run out of tequila, and now you’re drinking this?”
“I knew you were watching me,” she says smugly.
Popcorn falls from my now open mouth. “W-what?”
Turning to me, she shrugs, saying, “I knew you were watching me the other night.”
“How?” I demand.
Another shrug. “I felt it.”
“When?” My ability to speak has been reduced to one-word questions, apparently.
“Before and after we talked.”
“Is that why you came over?”
