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Might as well get it over with.
“Are you still ...” I gulped, buying time.
He raised an eyebrow, losing patience. “Am I still what?”
“In touch with Gretchen?”
His eyebrows creased. “Thisis what got your panties in a twist?”
I hitched a shoulder up. “Let’s admit it, my knickers have been twisty since last night, when you refused to get rid of them.”
He smirked. “Jealous?”
I barked out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. My only feelings for you are fondness and friendship.”
“I meant ofGretchen.” He stared at me like I was insane as he took a slow bite of his sandwich.
“Right. Of course. I knew that.” I smoothed my dress over my legs, thinking about it. Was I jealous of Gretchen? Or had I been? I wanted to be honest with him, with myself. And I also wanted to know the answer to that question, because I never dared to ask that of myself.
“I think I envy her,” I admitted, finally.
He ripped another piece of bread with his teeth. “What’s the difference between jealousy and envy?”
“Envy builds you and jealousy destroys you.” I rolled a piece of lettuce between my fingers. “Envy is wanting something someone else has and being inspired by it. Jealousy is knowing you could never have it. And though they oftentimes wear similar masks, you can always tell them apart. Jealousy will be louder, unrestrained, and often public.”
Riggs reached to ruffle my hair. I secretly loved when he did that.
“You’re smart, Poppins.”
I bloomed under his hooded gaze, feeling prettier and smarter than I ever had before, and wondered if this was how love felt. To feel like you completely belong and are worthy, even when showing your true self.
“So that means Gretchen was jealous of you, and you were envious of Gretchen,” Riggs concluded. “Because what I’ve seen in her office was sure unrestrained and public.”
“What could Gretchen be jealous of?” I let out a bark of a laugh. “She has everything, and I have nothing.”
“You have youth,” he pointed out. “And wits. You’re funny, you’re smart, you think on your feet, and—fine, I’ll give it to you—you’re a great employee, and she knows that.”
“Maybe.” Ihmmed. “But that doesn’t answer my question—are you still in touch with her?”
He gave me a smart-ass smirk. “No comment.”
I wanted to strangle him for not giving me a straight answer, but I didn’t sulk and forced myself to take part in our conversation as we finished our sandwiches.
“So ... how long have you been a mountain climber?”
“Mountaineer,” he corrected. “Since I was eighteen. But even before that, I liked climbing shit. Rooftops, trees, whatever.”
“You really want to die, don’t you?” I squeezed a pitted olive between my fingers, watching it spurting oil.
He laughed. “Actually, climbing a roof when intoxicated is much more dangerous than climbing Everest with the help of oxygen bottles, a Sherpa, and months of preparation.”
“What’s the appeal, though?” I asked, genuinely wanting to know.
Riggs made a shocked face. “You’re asking me what the appeal is in reaching the highest point a human could set foot on?”
I nodded, shrugging. “I don’t get it.”
“Well, believe it or not, I don’t get the appeal in laminating supermarket lists.” He set his elbow on my knee casually, and my heart did something funny in my chest. “But seriously. I get off on the notion my body is capable of crazy shit. Mountain climbing speaks to that part of me that wants the validation that I’m Peter Pan.”
