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“Okay.” I swallow hard, pushing down the lingering frustration. “Okay, let’s just forget it, then. Start over for a second time.”
“Thank you. And I promise to be on my best behavior from now on.” He rubs at the back of his neck, relief blowing out of him. “But, uh, you know our night was cut short before I could ask you ... why did you come to the game in the first place? Was it to see Cruz again?”
I snort a laugh. “No, definitely not.”
“Then why?” he presses, brow furrowed.
I let out a soft sigh, admitting a truth I’ve kept to myself for the past few years. “I just ... I still come to watch you play sometimes.”
“You ...?”
“Yeah, just every once in a while,” I say, a poor attempt at nonchalance. “Guess you’ve never spotted me before.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s not.”
“How often, then?”
I fidget with my napkin. “A few each season. Maybe ... maybe a handful?”
“You’ve come tomaybefive of my games a season since freshman year, and I’ve never seen you there before. How?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t looking.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“We haven’t talked,” I murmur. “I didn’t want to bother you, especially if you didn’t want to see me.”
He leans forward, expression open. “I know we drifted, but I never cut you out of my mind.” He taps his temple. “You still live up here.”
“Yeah?”
“Always,” he affirms softly.
“I’ve missed you,” I confess. “A lot.”
“I’ve really fucking missed you,” he echoes. “Can we just ... do you think we could forget all the bullshit, all the nonreasons we’ve drifted, and just go back?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t think so.”
He swallows hard. “No?”
“We can’t go back, but we can move forward.”
“Yeah.” His voice is steady now, more assured. “Yeah, okay. I want that. And in an effort to move forward, I think we should probably start out with some brutal honesty.”
I wave a hand, urging him on. “Go for it.”
“So, I may or may not have accidentally beat the shit out of Cruz yesterday.”
My mouth falls open. “Sorry, what?”
“Well, I didn’t beat him up,per se. But I punched him, cracked a fist against his jaw.” He shakes out his right hand, clenching and flexing his fingers as if reliving the memory. “It felt good.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
He shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that doesn’t quite mask the underlying tension. “He’s an ass.”
