A waitress comes by to take my empty glass and asks if we want something. I order another strawberry daiquiri, and Miles orders a Corona with lime.
“Your book must be good if you’re ignoring me. What are you reading?” Miles asks.
“You wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me.”
“The Lost Godby Sheila Masterson.”
“Never heard of it.”
I give him a pointed“I just said that”glare.
“It’s not really your genre,” I say.
“Is it fairy porn? I hear that’s really popular now.”
“It’s witch porn, thank you very much.”
“Any scenes you want to reenact?” he asks with a smirk.
My cheeks heat, but I give my attention back to the same paragraph I’ve read three times now.
I’d forgotten how easy banter is for us, the way conversation flows like a tennis match, the ball pinging between us, one of us—usually me—dropping off when we can’t keep up with the other. Nostalgia wraps me up in its warm embrace, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it arrives. Heartbreak sweeps in, a dark cloud over a spot of sunshine.
Not just my heartbreak from Miles, but my more recent heartbreak as well.
Because there was good with Todd, too.
Not playful, sexy, makes-me-light-up-like-a-Christmas-tree good, but grounded, steady good.
And now I’m on my honeymoon alone.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it lodges in my chest—a bubble of sadness.
I shift in my seat. I don’t really want to be here anymore, sitting by the pool on a bright sunny day. I want to lie in my bed and watchThe Officeuntil I fall asleep. That dark cloud in me is spreading, and I think being near Miles is making it worse.
But I just ordered a drink, and I can’t disappear before then. The bartender took the time to make the drink; the waitresswent and got it for me. It would be really rude to just not be here when she comes looking for me, not to mention a waste of a drink.
And as much as I don’t want to be here, I also don’t want Miles to think I’ve turned into the kind of person who just walks away from a conversation.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks—this man literally walked away from our relationship—but I don’t like making other people uncomfortable. Miles included.
“So what happened?” he asks.
“In my book?”
“With your fiancé.”
I grind my teeth. Of course Miles has no shame in asking deeply personal questions like that. He’s never been one for social niceties. I’m over here trying my best not to make him uncomfortable, and he could not care less.
I don’t have to play his game, though. He lost that kind of access to me a decade ago, and if he thinks he can just slide right back into my life like the last ten years never happened, he’s got another think coming.
“I just told you,” I say as the waitress returns with our drinks. I hand her some cash as she hands me my drink. “He left.”
“Hm.” Miles takes a pull of his beer, and I watch the way his Adam’s apple works. A single line of sweat appears on his neck, rolling down to his collarbone. I track it, watching it crest and cascade down his chest, mingling with the pool water.
When my eyes travel back up to his, I realize I’ve been caught. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I dart my gaze away quickly, but not before I catch him returning the body scan. I resist the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. My body isn’t carved like an Italian marble sculptor made me, but I know at one point in our lives he loved it. Treasured and worshiped iteven. He was the first person in my life who had ever made me feel so wanted, so deeply desired.
