I scratch under the cat’s chin and Archie’s big yellow eyes roll back in bliss. “He seems to like me well enough.”
She makes a noncommittal hum and sips her tea.
The silence that falls is taut with anticipation. We know what’s coming but not how to get there.
Torres, as always, is braver than I am.
“You know,” she begins, her tone thoughtful, “if someone had time-traveled from the future and told teenage me that I’d one day be sitting on my sofa with Gideon Noble, drinking herbal tea after he fucked my brains out, I probably would’ve slapped them in the face.”
I want to focus on the “fucked my brains out” part, but force myself to stay on track. “You wouldn’t have believed it?”
“Not in a million years.” She narrows her eyes at me over her mug. “Don’t tell me the thought of having sex with me ever crossed your mind.”
“On the contrary. It crossed my mindmanytimes. Sometimes multiple times a day.”
She shoots me a look that says I’m full of shit. “You’re lying.”
“Have you seen yourself?”
Her mouth drops open. “What is this revisionist history? You are the same person who said my eyebrows looked like turds. You told everyone I didn’t wash my hair. And you called meSmellenciafortwo years.”
Remorse is like a knife in my chest. It kills me that this is what she remembers about me. I hold her gaze and say, as sincerely as possible, “I know. And I’m sorry. I was an asshole.”
“Exactly.” Her voice is high with indignation. “So don’t you dare try to claim you secretly thought I was pretty or some bullshit.”
I sit up straight, a tough feat on this sofa. “Do you remember the Christmas dance in eighth grade?”
She rolls her eyes. “How could I forget? That was the night I finally learned to use a flat iron and asked my mom to tweeze my eyebrows. And suddenly, thanks to myPrincess Diariesmakeover, all the boys who’d teased me since sixth grade fell over themselves to ask me to dance.” She raises those brows at me now, as if to emphasize their elegantly angled arches.
I pitch my voice low to contrast her flippant tone. “You wore an emerald green dress. Velvet. I know, because I bumped into you by the snack table and touched your sleeve. Your hairwas pulled back in a bun, but you had these pieces falling down, here”—I graze a fingertip from her temple to her chin—“and here.” I repeat the touch on the other side of her face.
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me with her dark, piercing gaze. “Youdidn’t ask me to dance.”
“I know.”
I wish to God that I had. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently between us.
“Why—” She breaks off and shakes her head.
“Go ahead. You can ask.” Answering her questions is the least I can do.
A line forms between her brows, and old hurt lingers in her eyes. “Why didn’t you ask me? And why did you tease me so much before that? And then ... why did you stop? In high school, you acted like I didn’t exist. Was it because of the dance?”
I lean back and wrap my hands around the warm mug. “It’s ... a lot more complicated than that.”
“So tell me.” There’s the faintest note of pleading in her voice, so I take a deep breath and bring forward those old, shameful feelings.
“From the beginning, you were so smart, and so focused, it kind of drove me nuts. I was consumed with a mix of admiration and jealousy. There were times I thought you had to be cheating, because how could anyone be so fuckingbrilliant? But I was attracted to you, too, and I didn’t know how to deal with any of it except to try to distract you.”
“So you annoyed me because you wanted attention. How original.” Her glare is unimpressed. “It didn’t occur to you that you could just be myfriend?”
“I—no.”
“Why the fuck not?” She sounds incredulous, and I can’t blame her.
I deflate, because this part is even harder to admit. It feels disloyal, even though he’s gone, even though he waswrong. But I owe this to her, so I say, “Because ... because of my dad.”
Her brow furrows, and something like compassion tinges her expression. “I remember he was hard on you. About grades.”
