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“You didn’t even really notice I was there.”
“So you did know?”
“Of course I did. Everyone knows who you are,” I say quietly.
“No one here has recognized me.”
“You’re wearing a baseball cap. It’s not like we were friends or anything. We went to school together for a few weeks, and you were two grades higher than me. I was nobody.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I think we should go.”
“Not until you tell me whatever it is that’s making you all sketchy.”
“Can we not do this right here, please?” I whisper.
I don’t actually think there’s an ideal location for this anywhere, ever, but a crowded café is definitely low on the list.
“Sure, okay.” Lance pushes away from the table and comes around to help me into my jacket.
My stomach is twisting. I feel stupid already. I’m going to come across as some pining, idiot girl who’s idolized him for years—which is and isn’t the case. I mean, for a long time I romanticized that kiss, and of course, like the hopeless romantic I am, I had those silly girl fantasies about meeting him again and picking up where we’d left off.
But it isn’t like I never dated or had boyfriends. I’ve done both. I’ve had several long-term boyfriends, nice ones who treated me well. But the fire just never seemed to burn bright or long enough to sustain the initial attraction, and eventually those relationships turned into friendships.
What if he thinks I’m a stalker? No matter how sweet he is with me, there’s plenty of evidence floating around out there to prove he’s a partier with lots of willing partners. That coupled with the strangely labeled contact on his phone is enough to remind me how sideways this whole thing could go.
Lance follows me out of the café, the mood having changed from light and flirty to heavy once again.
He grabs my hand when we’re on the sidewalk. “Can you tell me what’s going on? I really fucking hate being manipulated, and that’s exactly what this feels like.”
“I’m not manipulating you.” I pause while people pass us on the sidewalk. “Can we walk and I promise I’ll talk?”
Lance sighs, but falls into step beside me. I wait until we’re back on a quieter street before I say anything.
“My sister’s freshman year, she took me to a house party. Some kids from her school threw it.”
“Okayyy.”
“I was in seventh grade.”
“Fuck. That wasn’t a good place for you to be, but what does this have to do with anything?”
“I’m getting to that.”
“Was I there?”
I nod, but don’t look at him.
He grabs my arm, gently but firmly, and pulls me to a stop. Stepping in front of me, his eyes are wide and haunted. “Please tell me we didn’t hook up at that party when you were thirteen.”
“God. No. Not in the way you mean.”
He drops his hands, closes his eyes, and releases a relieved breath. “Thank fucking Christ.”
“And I was twelve.”
“Twelve? At a high school party?”
“My thirteenth birthday was, like, a week away. My sister didn’t always make the best choices.”
“Clearly.”
“It was a big part of the reason we ended up moving away from Chicago for a few years. She couldn’t stay out of trouble.” I was always the easy child growing up. Cinny was the one who got into all the trouble. Apart from that one party.
We start walking again.
“So I didn’t commit a felony, which is good. Did I talk to you?”
It hurts that he doesn’t remember at all. “In a manner of speaking.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“One of my sister’s friends was playing a game. I didn’t realize what it was until it was too late.” I have to look anywhere but him in order to get out the rest. “They were playing Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
Lance comes to a dead stop again. I don’t want to look up, but I have to because he’s not moving. “You got locked in a closet with some high school douche when you were twelve?”
“Almost thirteen.” As if that makes it better. “I didn’t get locked in there with a douche; I got locked in there with you.”
“For seven minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Did we make out? Wait. Don’t answer that. We’re close to your house, right?”
“It’s down the street.”
He laces his fingers through mine and tugs. “Come on.”
“What are you doing?”
“Hoping to jog my memory.”
When we reach my door, it takes me a minute to find my keys since they’re stuck at the bottom of my purse. Then I fumble and drop them on the mat.
Lance bends down to grab them. “Here. Let me get it.”
When the door swings open, he pushes past me into my foyer. He goes straight for the hall closet, opening the door and parting the hangers.
“What’re you doing?”
He laces my fingers with his. “I want you to show me.”
“Show you wh—”
He steps into the closet and pulls me inside with him, closing the door behind us.
