Page 27 of Never Forget

Then Scott reaches for an insulated bag attached to his duffel that I didn’t notice before. “I brought bagels from that place you like in Queens.”

My traitorous heart skips. Then my stomach decides to chime in and growls, empty aside from the half cup of coffee I was working on when Scott pulled up.

I hate it.

I stare at him. He stares back.

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a smile or acknowledgement that I’m at all happy about the bagels.

“Did you bring the cream cheese?”

Scott’s entire face lights up. The bastard.

From inside the cooler bag he produces a container. One clearly marked with a label that says sea salt and honey. My favorite. It’s even packed between ice packs to keep it cold the whole way here.

“I hate you.”

Later, after the single most uncomfortable, awkward day of my life– After dinner has been prepared and eaten and the dishes done before I could even offer to help, I escape to the deck to get some air.

I need five damn minutes without Scott Riley. That man takes up too much space. Physically, obviously. The trailer was already small before he showed up looking like an appliance with legs.

It’s more than that, though. He takes up space in my head. My thoughts are so erratic and jumbled when he’s in my space. It was bad enough when he wasn’t here and I was already thinking about him constantly, but now he’s in my space. His presence is larger than he is. There’s no getting away from it.

It’s infuriating.

I take a deep, cleansing breath and lean back in my chair. The lake stretches out before me, serene and sparkling in the fading light. The crickets are singing somewhere in the trees now that the construction crew has packed up and left for the day, leaving behind the kind of silence that feels loud again.

Maybe I should jump into the lake.

Not to drown, exactly. Just to get away from him. See how long I can hold my breath. Maybe by the time I surface he’ll have disappeared and my mind will be at ease again.

It’s a ridiculous thought, I know. But so is the fact that he’s only been here for a few hours, less than a full day, and I already feel wound tighter than I did before he arrived.

The worst part is I know he’s doing it on purpose. Being fucking nice. Making dinner. Cleaning up afterward. Remembering my favorite bagels. Walking around fucking shirtless after his shower like he’s completely unaware he looks like a fucking Greek god. And all the fucking smiling. What the fuck is up with that?

It’s absurd.

The deck door slides open, and I tense. I don’t turn around, but when a cold bottle presses against my arm, I crack one eye open.

Scott is holding out a beer. I take it, mostly because refusing would require effort, and watch as he leans against the railing. He gazes out at the lake, at the darkening sky, streaks of orange and purple reflecting across the water. I watch him soak it all in and appreciate my little piece of paradise.

For a while neither of us says anything, but the silence gets to me with him standing right there, so I break it.

“I see you still haven’t found a shirt.”

Without looking at me, Scott smiles. “I see you’re still pretending you don’t appreciate the view.”

I scoff so hard I nearly choke on my beer. The jerk actually laughs.

“You’re awfully full of yourself today.”

I roll my eyes and look back at the lake, secretly hoping he noticed the eyeroll and does something about it. Anything to break the tension.

Instead, he stays quiet. Long enough that I relax back in my chair again.

Eventually, he asks, “Why don’t you stay in that big house? The one near the entrance, I mean.”

“If this place isn’t nice enough for you, I already told you I don’t need you here. Feel free to⁠—”