She'd picked up her stuff and all but ran out the door. That was the last time I saw her until graduation. She wouldn't even look at me there. She must have avoided me during the formal, because I didn't see her?—
Oh, shit.
I shook my head. "You never went," I guessed, my voice low.
She frowned. "To the formal? Of course not. I wasn't going near it after you made me feel like… Like…" She shook her head.
"Like shit?" I suggested.
"Yeah, like shit," she agreed. “‘No thank you’ would have been enough. Or tell me you already had a date, even if you didn't."
"That would have been the classy thing to do," I agreed. "Past me was a dumb jock."
"As opposed to present you?" she retorted.
"Absolutely." I smiled without humour. "Look, it was a stupid, insensitive thing to do. Back then, I was obsessed with appearances. I thought everything I did would decide whether or not I ended up here."
"You're not obsessed with appearances now?" She gestured around us.
I paused, mouth open for a good half a minute. "I'm obsessed with good pasta," I said finally.
She snorted.
Also, who was she to talk about appearances?
"Ironic, considering how hard you tried to get my attention earlier today," I said. "You seemed concerned with your own appearance. What was that all about? Wait, let me guess. You wanted a scoop? Maybe you wanted to create a scandal of some kind, then you could spill it to the world." I wouldn't put it past any journalist.
"You think I want to make money by selling sleaze?" She seemed genuinely offended by the suggestion. She really was hot when she was pissed off.
"Some people will doanythingfor money," I reminded her.
"And some will do anything to appear to be more than they are," she shot back. "How much of your apparent distress at the press conference was real and how much was for appearances? Gotta be the good guy, the genuine guy." She gave one of her world-ending eye rolls. I remembered those well from school.
Now I was angry. "Every. Bit. Was. Genuine," I ground out. "You really think I'd use a dying woman to score points?"
That took her aback. "You might not," she admitted. "But it makes a good story for a media-trained quarterback."
"You would know about good stories," I snapped.
The arrival of our meal prompted a temporary ceasefire from both sides of the table.
Once I'd eaten a few mouthfuls and got my temper back under control, I said, "So you hate my guts because of the formal thing? That's a long time to hold a grudge."
"I cared about you," she said around a mouthful of food. She made no attempt to eat daintily. I appreciated a woman who ate pasta with the same gusto I did. Even if she was infuriating. "I thought we were friends."
"You wanted more," I suggested.
She paused between forkfuls and twisted her mouth to one side. "I suppose so." She popped the food into her mouth and chewed.
What would it have been like to walk into the formal with her on my arm? Present me found the idea appealing, especially with her looking like she did now. Past me found the idea appalling. He would have shrunk away from the stares and the pointed fingers.
I was going to have to come to terms with the fact that past me was a bit of a jerk. Fortunately, present Hawk had a better handle on things. I changed, and I wasn’t going to let past me linger in my mind anymore.
"I'm sorry I was dick," I said finally. "I didn't have a clue back then. All I knew was one thing; getting here. Making it." Well, two things, but the other was too personal, too raw, even now.
"Yeah. I was the awkward nerd," she said. "What business did I have thinking the star quarterback would be interested in me? Other than to get you through English."
I hated the look of pain on her face. Back then, her feelings for me were genuine. That was obvious. I doubted there was anything I could say which would erase the hurt, no matter how bad I wanted to.
