Of course he did. And of course I want to trace every single one with my fingertips. My hands itch just thinking about it.
I let my eyes trail over the tattoos wrapping around his forearms, disappearing under the sleeves of his black T-shirt. “They’re beautiful.”
“They tell a story,” he says quietly. “Where I’ve been. What I’ve seen.”
The air between us shifts again. The lightness of our banter, the old rhythm we used to fall into, fades, and suddenly, there’s something heavier in his gaze. My smile falters, and I look downat my milkshake, pretending to focus on the swirl of the straw, but really, I’m unraveling inside, thread by thread.
I want to ask him everything. I want to scream at him for making me feelthis, for making me feelanything,when I swore I was done with him. I want to ask if I’ve ever crossed his mind all these years, or if I was just a casualty in the life he left behind.
I don’t.
Instead, I take a sip of my milkshake, the cold sweetness sliding down my throat, and nod toward the fries. “I see your taste in snacks hasn’t changed.”
I force a laugh, but it’s thin. My words might be wrapped in humor, but my heart’s not in it.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches me with those honest eyes that always saw more than I wanted them to. I used to love that about him. I used to hate it, too.
I used to picture this very moment, sitting across from him again, and wonder what I’d say. I imagined being stronger. Sitting here now, though, I don’t feel like that at all. I’m just raw. Exposed.
“I didn’t think you’d remember the shakes,” I say after a beat, voice quieter now. “Or the fries.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t forgetanything, Violet.”
I wish he had. I wish he’d forgotten the sound of my voice and the way we used to laugh like the world would never end. Because if he remembers, then he knew exactly what he was walking away from, and he left anyway.
His knee brushes mine under the table, and the contact sends a shock straight through me. He leans back a little, dragging his thumb over the condensation on his glass, eyes still holding mine. “So, you ended up at the vet clinic, huh? You always did have a soft spot for mangy things.”
I laugh again, but it’s brief. It’s easier to talk about vet clinics and the oldyou and me—the version of us before we turned into this. But I didn’t come here to talk about the past.
“And you?” I ask. “Where’d you go, Rowan?”
His gaze falls to the table, his fingers still tracing circles on his glass. “Everywhere,” he mutters finally, his voice rougher now. “Nowhere, really.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs and leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, hands laced together. “I joined the military. Did some contract work after that. Security stuff. Spent a lot of years making sure other people were safe because I didn’t know how to keep myself content.”
His gaze lifts to mine, and I swallow hard. “You just disappeared.”
He nods once. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck tightening. “I know,” he mutters, and his voice cracks just slightly. “That was the point.”
A flare of anger sparks in my chest. “The point?” I repeat. “The point was to just vanish without a word? To let me wonder for years what happened to you? If you were even alive?”
His eyes flash with something close to regret, but he doesn’t look away. “I had to go, Violet. I couldn’t stay here.”
“Why not?” I push. “Because of your dad? Because of the fights? Or was it the endless rotation of girls you chased down back roads and parking lots, pretending I didn’t exist while I was right in front of you?”
The second it’s out, I hate it. Not because it isn’t true—but because it is. It’s venom and ache and too many years of silence spilling out. I want to shove the words back down and swallow them whole.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes snap to mine as if I’ve slapped him. “What? No. Don’t do that. I saw you, Violet. I always saw you.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding against my ribs. “But you didn’t want me,” I whisper, the confession like glass in my throat. “Not the way I wanted you.”
His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks almost angry. “Is that what you think?”
I can’t answer right away. The weight of all those years watching him from afar, keeping me at arm’s length while I silently ached for him—it all comes rushing back.
“What was I supposed to think? You never—” I stop myself, embarrassment washing over me. I sound like a teenager, not a grown woman. “It doesn’t matter now.”
