“To happy tears and first dates,” he says with a wink.
I grin, clinking my glass to his. “Cheers.”
Dinnerisincredible.Perfectlycooked steak that practically melts in my mouth, paired with a smooth and rich red wine.
But it’s not just the food.
It’s Lane.
He doesn’t hide behind small talk—he asks real questions.
“Do you believe in fate?” he asks, just as I lift my forkful of green beans.
I pause, meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I think so.” I swallow. “Not in the everything-happens-for-a-reason way, but I believe there are forces out there. That certain things aremeantto happen. Or certain people are meant to cross paths. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts.”
He watches me closely, nodding once. “Yeah. Same.” Then—softly—he adds, “Do you miss home?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “No.”
It feels good to say it out loud. To be unapologetically honest.
We trade pieces of ourselves over dinner, passing questions back and forth. I even open up to him about my mom, about how much I miss her—and for the first time, it doesn’t hurt as much.
Somewhere between dessert menus and the check, I finally ask the question that’s been circling my head.
“Why don’t you drink?”
He swirls the melting ice in his water glass before taking a sip. “I’m drinking right now,” he says lightly.
“You know what I mean.”
He nods slowly, gaze falling to the table.
“I don’t like to talk about it,” he says, voice rough around the edges.
My heart twists.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Forget I even asked.”
But he shakes his head, reaching across the table and threading his fingers through mine, his thumb brushing slow circles against my skin.
“You deserve to know.”
I squeeze his hand to hopefully reassure him that whatever it is, it won’t change how I see him.
“I came here to get a fresh start,” he begins, voice low. “My dad’s…an alcoholic. A mean, violent drunk. Growing up, I tried my best to stay out of his way. Avoiding him was key to surviving. I wanted to leave, desperately, but I couldn’t leave my mom alone.
“On my twenty-first birthday, I went out with my friends and got hammered. Like, borderline blackout drunk. From what I remember, it was pretty bad.”
He exhales sharply.
“My friends sent me home in an Uber and when I got back, my dad was still up waiting on me, completely shit-faced, of course. He started rambling, not making any sense. I tried to ignore him, slipping past him to go to my room and sleep it off. But hekept pushing me, getting in my face and yelling that he and my mom were worried sick and I’m worthless, making my mom cry every night because of what a horrible son I am.”
His voice hardens.
“Something in me snapped. Years of resentment and anger and fear just—boiled over. I lost control. I’d never felt rage like I did at that moment, and I unleashed it all on him.”
His throat bobs as he swallows.
