Page 292 of These Tears

‘Hey,’ he says, softer, almost wounded. ‘Don’t be like that. After all this time we could at least speak like adults. I haven’t seen you in a while.’

I turn very slowly and look at him. Then past him—

Deciding what I could possibly tell the police about the man who stood inches from me in one moment, then found himself beneath a lorry in the next.

‘I’ve been away,’ I say lightly.

His brows lift with interest, and he steps closer in that same easy way he used to when he wanted something forgiven before I could even know what his crime was.

I feel every inch of that step like a blade drawn too near, but I only give him a small, polite smile. ‘Busy.’

He laughs softly, but it sounds rehearsed. I don’t know how I never recognised it for what it was before now.

He glances down, then back up through his thick lashes as his charm paints his mouth a brighter shade.

There it is.

The old performance.

The debonair smile.

‘I’ve been busy, too. Mad, really. But listen—’ He bends down slightly, and I feel Brute’s hackles rising beneath my palm as his jaw snaps shut and his ears lower. ‘Are you free later? We could get a drink. Catch up. Properly.’

The word lands exactly where he intends it to.

Brute rises, placing himself against my leg, broad chest blocking the space between us. A low sound begins in his throat.

‘Steady,’ I tell him.

His eyes remain fixed on Ron, but the sound stops at once.

Somehow, all I hear is the echo of Marina’s voice in my head: engaged to the mother of his child; already seen with someone else.

The anger comes, but the old questions don’t: what does she have? What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I enough?

Nothing.

My eyes lift to his. I finally see how little there actually is underneath all that charisma. He’s reaching for whatever reflection makes him feel good.

I keep a calm smile, tilting my head to the side. ‘What’s the baby’s name?’

And the mask falls. His attention darts towards the window before returning to me. ‘Ah, that… It turned out it wasn’t mine.’

The coffee-shop door opens again and Inga steps out with Olle behind her, both of them taking in the scene with the stillness that makes people rethink their choices.

Olle looks Ron over from head to toe, unimpressed, towering over him by nearly a head.

‘Everything all right?’ he asks, raking his blond hair with a giant hand that had probably lifted timber heavier than the man in front of me.

Ron straightens at once, smoothing his face into something pleasant.

‘Of course. I’m Ron. Leah’s old friend.’ He holds out his hand to Inga’s brother, who looks down at it, then at me with soundless assessment. Brute shifts half a step forward without a sound.

Inga’s gaze cuts to me. Her expression drops. Then recognition lands, followed by a shine in her eyes that promises an exceptionally unpleasant few minutes.

‘Douchebag Ron, of course,’ she says as she looks at him.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he asks, hand still hanging in the air.