His dark brown hair is styled well, and although it’s longer than it was in college, it’s still shorter on the sides than it is on the top. Running my hands through that hair was a favorite activity of mine in college, and even now, my fingers itch to feel the silky strands fall between my fingers again.
He can’t read my thoughts, but the way he’s looking at me right now makes me wonder if he might actually be capable of it. There’s a dark, amused look in his eye. Self-conscious, I pick up my glass and take a few hefty gulps of my drink. I need to get away from this man and his temptation, and the only way I’ll do that is by finishing this drink.
But I drank the frozen beverage way too fast. I pinch the bridge of my nose, scrunching my face.
“Oh no, did you?—”
“Brain freeze,” I say, holding up a hand. “I’m okay, just…”
It passes, the icy cold slap on my sinuses fading with every second.
“Here.” He nudges the basket of chips on the table toward me, and I indulge. I can’t pass up a salty snack. “I have guacamole on the way too.”
“I’m not eating with you, Miles.” I blink away the last of the brain freeze.
“We don’t have to talk. You’re welcome to read and ignore me the whole time.”
“Tempting.”
“Is that all that’s tempting you, Abby?”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine, but I clench every muscle in my body to keep from actually moving. There’s no way I’m going to show him the effect he has on me. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.
“You had an apology for me, Miles?”
His lips turn up into a smile, and he casts his gaze downward, acknowledging my resistance to his charms.
“I do.” He clears his throat. “I know I apologized when I broke up with you, but I don’t think I had any idea how truly sorry I was. Or how sorry I would be. You deserved better than a phone call. I should have come talk to you. I should have had a conversation with you. And I’m sorry.”
He leans forward as he speaks, resting both forearms on the table. He clutches his glass with both hands, like it’s what’s anchoring him to the spot.
To his credit, he never averts his eyes from mine. And his apology lands. Rather than hit me like a freight train, it settles on me like a blanket. It isn’t surprising. He’s articulating something I said myself many, many times. He’s exactly right. I did deserve a face-to-face conversation. I did deserve better than a phone call. And his acknowledgment of that, even after all this time, feels good. If not for me, then for twenty-two-year-old Abby, who thought she was going to marry this man.
“Thank you,” I say.
He gives me a solemn nod.
Tenderness stretches across the space between us, and as the seconds pass, remnants of the love we once shared rise to the surface, objects with no weight in a body of water. Nostalgia rips through my chest, not a soft feather-light feeling tickling at my memory, but rather a violent thing. My chest aches and the backs of my eyes sting with tears.
In another world, we’re at this same table in Cabo in the heat of the summer, celebrating an anniversary. Our fingers intertwined, our lives woven together. In that world, our love isn’t a memory, but a reality.
In this one, though, we just have this moment. Connected briefly by his apology and my gratitude.
The spell breaks when a waiter stops by to ask if we’re ready to order.
We beg him off, insisting on a few more minutes, and he leaves us alone.
Miles and I meet each other’s eyes again, but the moment has passed.
“You still have a lot of drink left—does that mean you’re staying?” he asks.
I sink my top teeth into my bottom lip. I got my apology; I suppose I could leave.
But curiosity paws at me, an insistent cat who wants answers.
“If you’ll indulge me a few questions,” I say.
“Ask away,” he says, a slow smile breaking over his face. “Do I also get to ask you questions?”
