“Nothing has to happen between us. This means I can be at ease looking at you.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Looking at me?”
He nods, asks if I still plan on eating dinner with him, and then leads me down the steps. Next, he opens the passenger-side door of his blue truck. The same one I had fantasies of riding away in the day I met him. When he’s in the driver’s seat, his hands on the steering wheel, he looks over. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I honor my commitments. I can look at you and not feel guilty, Carina. I can let my mind wander to places I didn’t let it before. I don’t have to wonder what if, because I can live it if we choose to. We have freedom of choice. Friendship? Of course. More? Who knows.” His words comfort me in a sense, but I can’t imagine how Megan must be feeling. “So, yes. Look at you.” Pointedly, he lets his gaze roam from my neck down to my waist and back up.
He leaves his hand on the seat between us, the pink scars visible against the beige leather. Accepting the subtle invitation, I place my hand in his. “If I’m to blame, even in the least, I hope you know I won’t be able to sleep at night ever again. I would never wish ill will on anyone. Especially her.” My voice cracks on the last word.
He squeezes my fingers. “That’s something you don’t have to tell me. I know you’re a good person. You’re not to blame at all. Circumstances are. Ones that are out of our control. My relationship with Megan after the accident was tedious at best.”
Sure, but for her it was more than that. Smith leaves me no choice but to removemyself from their breakup equation. It’s not my fault. It’s not. It can’t be. I didn’t do anything wrong. I have to believe their demise happened organically. A fading away that happens gradually when one person loves another person more. I’m well versed in that arena.
Smith drives, and I think. Never in all of my years have I felt such a serene calm. There’s no fear about what tomorrow brings or how I’m going to survive another day. It’s the first time I’ve felt this carefree since I was a child. Before my stepfather, Greg, came along and changed me down to the cellular level.
“The photo albums, Smith. All that love. As a romance author, I can’t in good conscience let that go by the wayside. You had a timeless love. Amnesia isn’t something that stopped that. It can’t. It’s inside you.”
Smith clears his throat. “Not all romances have happy endings. You know that,” he says. For a second I think of all of my favorite books. About half of them have a happy ending. The others end poetically sad in that literary way that serves the story well.
At the reminder of stories, I think of my current work in progress and my marker board of shame. I can’t write myself into the story if Megan isn’t in the picture any longer. It’s cheating. It’s fiction. I can do whatever I want. InPinion Lanethere were so many truths about my childhood, and the love story was contrived of my hopes and dreams for a life with Roarke. I twisted everything to my liking. I’ll do it again.
We arrive at the restaurant, place our drink and dinner orders, and make small talk over the live band in the corner of the restaurant. Sipping my mojito, I try to steer the conversation away from our personal lives. I end up asking him questions about his career, which frustrates me because I don’t have anything to write with, and I know I’ll forget important details.
“I told Moose to stop by and say hi. I hope that’s okay,” Smith says during a lull. “He was next door at the pub with a few of our friends.” He motions with his thumb to the wall to the left.
I’ve heard so many stories about Moose that I’m literally bouncing with excitement. “Yes. That’s fine. I’ve wanted to meet him for a while,” I reply.
Smith scratches the side of his head. “You can’t grill him like you grill me. Don’t get too excited.” Smith smirks, waves to someone over my shoulder, and stands. His stance is tall and regal.
I make a show of crossing my arms under my chest. “Who do you think I am?” I ask. “I’m not going to grill him. Too hard.” I smile.
Standing, I turn to see Moose heading our way. The restaurant is full, but there’s no question who Smith’s best friend is. He’s a lumbering man with broad shoulders, a don’t-mess-with-me attitude, and a smirk that is probably famous all across the world.
Smith shakes his friend’s hand and motions to me. “Carina, I’d like you to meet Moose. Moose, this is my friend Carina.”
Moose smiles. It’s genuine and kind—it seems displaced on a man of his magnitude. He extends his hand, and my own gets enveloped in the sheer size.
“A pleasure,” I say, smiling in his direction. Smith’s gaze is locked on my face. From the corner of my eye, I see his smile the second I smile.
“Is all mine,” Moose replies, tilting his chin down and to the side. A perfect gentleman. I’m waiting for him to curtsy. Moose releases his grip and turns his focus on Smith. Smith doesn’t notice. He’s still staring at me.
“I probably won’t hear the end of it, so I have to ask. Why Moose?” I ask, laughing to break the odd pause. My friends will be happy with this information. “I mean, I understand for the most part.” I motion to his figure that seems to be well over six feet, then motion with my hand side to side.
Smith tells me it’s a long story and suggests we sit down. I take a sip of my mojito and swirl the drink with the long cane of sugar. Smith orders a few more orders of tapas and a drink for Moose and then launches into a story about how Moose can actually make a true-blue moose sound. Both of the men laugh, and I see a new side of Smith. It’s eye-opening to see how carefree and unencumbered his personality is when he’s living inside his friend’s grace.
Moose turns to me with mirth reflecting in his eyes. “I’m from upstate New York. When I was twelve, I was attacked by a moose,” he explains, gesturing with hishands.
Smith coughs. “And he won.”
I let my eyes widen. “No way. That can’t be a real story.”
Moose nods. “I was large even as a child. From that day forward, I was Moose.”
“The nickname has nothing to do with the weird SEAL thing then?” I ask, lowering my voice. The small amount of alcohol has already hit my bloodstream, but I know enough to make an effort to be quiet when I speak of their profession. “I find that hard to believe.”
Smith laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to hold back,” he says, shaking his head. “He learned the moose call to try to befriend the beasts. The joke is that the animals mistake him for their kindred because of his size. All he’s missing is antlers and fur.”
“I have to hear it. You know that, right?” I deadpan. I’ve been in Southern California my whole life. The fact he’s seen a moose is enough to impress me. He might as well be a host on an animal television show. That’s how versed I am with any sort of wildlife that isn’t a coyote.
Moose looks left and right. “I’m afraid I haven’t had enough to drink tonight, but I’ll give you a moose call rain check. So, Smith has told me so much about you. How’s the book coming along?” Subject change status: expert. His eyes narrow. Like any good friend, he’s concerned. I wonder if he knows about his breakup and how much of my drama he’s privy to.
