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36
ANDI
I’ve seen Jesse in casual clothes, workout clothes, and holiday sweaters. I haven’t seen him in a button down shirt, tie, and suit before. I have to say I’m a fan of the look.
He’s sitting across from me beneath a string of Edison bulbs in the outdoor area of the Mexican restaurant he brought me to. A heat lamp sits beside us, humming softly and putting out a nice warm envelope of comfort.
“You look nice all cleaned up,” I say.
“You too.”
“How was the meeting thing?” I ask. “And the team had a game, right? I thought I saw it was a win.”
“The meeting was fine. Coach asked me a million questions about my rehab. I think he’s hoping I’ll somehow wind up recovering from an eight-month injury in three months if he asks nicely enough. It was good, though. Before you got here, I was pretty much ignoring every team activity. Getting back to things here and there has felt like the right move. It was good to be at the rink and see a game again in person. It feels like I’ll actually be out on the ice again next season.”
I nod, smiling when our waitress drops off a big bag of salty, oily looking tortilla chips and three different dips. Dark red salsa, chunky guacamole, and queso. I snag a chip and dip it in all three, biting and making a satisfied noise. “That’s so good.”
He smiles. “I hoped you’d like it here. You mentioned fajitas the other night, so I thought–”
“Wow,” I say, already scarfing down another chip. “You’re a good listener.”
He shrugs.
“Why do you think you were mentally pulling away from the team?” I ask.
He frowns in thought. “I think I was pulling away from everything. Like a turtle pulling into its shell, or whatever.”
“And what brought little Jesse turtle out of his shell?”
“You,” he says, locking eyes with me and making me blush.
I awkwardly bite my chip, which is loaded with salsa, queso, and guac. All of it falls right down my cleavage, along with the tip of a chip.
We both laugh and Jesse reaches over to help. His fingers are between my boobs when the waitress comes back. She pauses, looks at his hand, and then does an about-face and walks back toward the kitchen.
I’m blushing even harder now. “Thanks,” I say, laughing.
We’re both smiling until I see the man walking in the front of the restaurant and the smile completely falls from my face.
A thousand-pound-weight drops cold and heavy in my stomach.
Landon Collins, the guy I was supposed to marry, is standing right there. He’s in Frosty Harbor. Why is he in Frosty Harbor?
I realize he’s gesturing for me to come outside and talk to him. I try to give a little shake of my head. He gestures more forcefully, and I can’t say why, but I make something up for Jesse. Maybe I’m just remembering how threatened I felt when I heard he was talking to Sarah and I don’t want to put him through that. Or maybe I’m just a coward. “Hey, um, I’ll just be a second, okay?”
He nods. His back is to Landon, and he seems unbothered when I get up and head toward the door.
Landon steps outside and I follow him. He’s standing in front of the building on the sidewalk, pacing with his hands in his pockets.
“Hey,” he says. Landon is tall with dark hair and the kind of skin I’ve come to learn only very rich people get. It must be the solid diet of expensive food, or maybe it comes from not growing up on bags of neon orange dust compressed into turd-like shapes masquerading as food. Don’t get me wrong, either. I love those neon turds.
He steps closer and takes my hands in his and I awkwardly pull back from him. For a few heartbeats, all I can do is look at him and take in the sight. It’s surreal.
For weeks now, I’ve pictured him just fuming and angry with me. I’ve imagined how many questions he has had to field from his parents and friends. Obvious questions, like how the hell did he not see this coming? How could he be so stupid? All he must have gone through because of me and he’s just standing there looking calm and completely normal.
“How do you look so normal?” I ask. “I ran away from our wedding and there must be like a million things you’ve been waiting to yell at me for. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did my text not come through?”
