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"Why don't you want to tell me?"
"I don't want you to get your hopes up."
"My hopes that you'll finally get laid?" she asks.
Uh…
"How long has it been?"
"A reasonable amount of time that is none of your business."
"That's too long. You should go. See him. Enjoy that, at least."
"I can't."
She raises a brow. "Why not?"
"Because…"
"Because… you're gay?" she asks.
"No."
"It's okay if you are."
"Do you think I am?"
"Well… you haven't been with anyone in a long time. And you do have an asymmetrical haircut."
I can't help but laugh. "You shouldn't stereotype."
"I know. But you also have an eyebrow piercing."
I double over.
God, I love Sienna. She's so… Sienna. Loud and bold and unapologetically herself.
She's been through as much as I have, but she's still bright and vibrant.
Whereas I can barely stomach picking up my guitar.
"What? It's true. And it's not a bad thing. If you're gay. Or asexual. Though we both know you aren't. You're already blushing."
I am.
"Mr. London… I wish I knew more about him. I picture him as different celebrities. Right now…" She presses her lips together, thinking. "Kit Harington."
I shake my head. "Too pretty."
"Tom Hardy?"
"Closer."
"Jeremy Irons."
"He's like a hundred."
"Maybe that's why you won't tell me."
I shake my head.
"Idris Elba."
She's getting warmer. Too much warmer. I call upon my poker face. Well, my annoying customer complaining his wife doesn't get him, but I'm such a good listener… face. "I'm not telling you."
"Why not?"
"Because." It's mine. That world we have together is mine.
She makes a show of pouting. "Okay. Fine. But… why is it you aren't rushing to reply to Mr. London?"
"Because I like him." My shoulders ease. It's a relief, admitting it to myself, but it's terrifying too.
"Isn't that a good thing?" she asks.
Maybe. I miss that feeling. The warmth in my chest, the flutter in my stomach, the lightness in my limbs.
But the ache in my soul that came after… I can't do that again.
"It's different for men. Sex doesn't always mean something to them. And he… It won't mean anything to him."
"How do you know that?"
"He left."
"That's what you both wanted, isn't it?" she asks.
Yes. At the time, it made sense.
He had a life in London. I had a life in New York. I was only a year into school. And it was a struggle. Everything was a struggle.
"Indie?" she asks.
"It seemed like the right thing to do."
"But you missed him." It's not really a question.
So I don't answer.
"He made you come. He made you swoon. You still like him. And now he wants to see you again. Why not?"
"Because it's not the same for him."
"How?"
It's a good question. I don't have an answer. Only excuses about not wanting to get hurt. "He did invite me to dinner."
She claps her hands together. "And by dinner you mean his apartment?"
"Will you be okay on your own?"
"Yes. Definitely." She sucks boba through her straw. "And if you want to stay the night… that's okay too." She winks.
I shake my head. Check my cell again.
Indigo: Dinner. If you'll explain.
Ty: Seven. At the Italian place.
There are a thousand Italian places in New York City, but there's only one he could mean: The place we had our first real date.
Which means there are less than three hours until I'm face-to-face with him.
And everything I like about him.
Chapter Six
Ty
I spend fifteen minutes steeling myself, but still, I melt the second she enters.
The Indigo I met three years ago. The same deep blue eyes and sharp features. And the new version of her: hesitant expression, tall boots, short, blunt haircut.
The edgy, asymmetrical look suits her.
And it shows off her neck. Like she's asking for my lips, teeth, hands.
Fuck, I want to touch her. I always want to touch her. Every time I think of her.
Right now—
I need to lay her on this table, roll her knickers to her ankles, spread her thighs.
No negotiations, no terms, no ugly memories.
Her under my control. Groaning my name as she comes on my face.
She stops at the table. Sets her simple black purse on the red cloth. Offers her hand.
I stand. Shake. Motion for her to sit.
She does.
"I ordered a bottle," I say.
"Champagne again?" She raises a brow celebrating already, how presumptuous.
Is there humor in it?
Or does she think the worst of me now?
It matters to me. She matters to me.
Sure, I'm not going to fall in love.
And I don't want her falling in love with me.
But I want her comfortable, safe, cared for.
"Red wine," I say. "Unless you no longer adore arrabbiata."
She crosses one leg over the other. "You drink wine now?"
"When in Rome."
"Of course." Her gaze flits to the server as he drops off a bottle. He pours. Nods goodbye. Disappears.
Indigo's eyes find mine. That same deep, dark blue. That same curiosity.
Once upon a time, she wanted everything in my heart.
Now, I don't know.
I don't have a read on her. Or the way my pulse is racing.
