Page 64 of The Last Special Thing

Madisson and Amelia exchanged a look in the rearview. Sweet Reyna. Even without being told, Amelia knew what was happening. The reason Max had excused them first. Her thoughts flickered back to the bottle of gin Art snatched from Ralph’s. Stealing when you were underage and couldn’t get what you wanted was one thing. They could have paid for breakfast. Annoyance washed over her. Art and Max enjoyed the thrill. Their budding friendship didn’t bode well for her. Even still, she pulled the car around to the back exit near the restrooms. She left it in drive, her right foot hovering over the pedal. It was her job to be the getaway driver. She’d done it before.

Art sauntered out first, shoulders back, arms swinging lazily at his sides. He slipped into the passenger seat. He didn’t look guilty, but the way he forwent his usual kiss with Amelia indicated that there was a layer of nervousness.

“Buckle your seatbelt,” she murmured.

As Art’s seatbelt clicked, Max burst through the restaurant doors. He reached her car and flung open the back door, then dove across Madisson and Reyna’s laps. Madisson yanked the door closed.

Amelia was already zooming away.

Horror covered Reyna’s face as she said, “We did not dine and dash.”

Max repositioned himself upright, and a wild, proud smile spread across his face. Amelia didn’t feel the humor or thrill.

Madisson shifted, her eyes flickering with shame before she reached into the seatback pocket. She pulled out a Burt’s Bees chapstick, coating her raw lips —a distraction. Madisson passed it around the car in silence.

Eventually, someone put on music. Amelia didn’t notice who. She stopped caring about the music or what Madisson was thinking. She stopped caring about her own numbness. All of her caring had been exhausted.

Three hours to the apartment dragged. By the time she parked, she still hadn’t said a word. There was nothing left to say.

Max, Madisson, and Reyna mumbled a thank you and exited the car. Max pulled out their bags and limped them into the complex.

“Amelia?” Art asked.

“Art.”

He swallowed. “I swear it wasn’t the ecstasy. I love you so much.” His sincerity echoed her feelings. His eyes, back to their ocean blue, met hers, a look of hope and fear in them.

“I love you, too,” she murmured.

The words felt new. She had said them to Weston on their sixth-month anniversary, but now they carried a heavier weight, a mutual promise. With Weston, it had seemed like the right time. They had had sex for the second time, which in hindsight was more mechanical than passionate. But then, she imagined that was how it was supposed to be. She lay in his arms, naked under the comforter, and the words tumbled out–I love you.

He said nothing, and his eyes found the ceiling. Her saying it was a new problem for him to solve, to make order out of. She wanted to take the words back at his silence, rewind, and shove them down. Bury them. Forget it ever happened.

“I don’t expect you to say it back,” she had told him quietly.

It was a lie, of course. Who says “I love you,” without believing it was reciprocated? She thought she had loved him. He made her feel safe. He listened to her complaints about her family. He tutored her to make sure she was accepted into UCLA. They enjoyed each other’s company. She loved that he dressed up with her. He came to the opening night of her play with flowers. He accompanied her to whatever function their parents insisted they attend. He was dependable and kind to her. That was the love that her parents shared.

She couldn’t fathom how Weston didn’t love her. There was no past trauma to untangle- both of their parents were happily married. She and Weston rarely fought and never over anything of substance. They lost their virginity to each other.

It was all important to her. She loved him, and he did not love her. She let the words slip two more times before he broke up with her. Words he never said. Not until he saw her with someone else.

With Art, her perspective had been altered. While she didn’t doubt that she had loved Weston as much as she could, there were various types of love. There was a heated passion and effortless understanding with Art. It was an adventure, an experience, a high she’d never felt before. She would meet many more men like Weston, who were great on paper. She would never meet someone like Art again, who was right for her soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Amelia rolled over, squinting her eyes open. She stretched for her phone on the nightstand and swiped at the screen. Shit. She had been asleep for sixteen hours. How was that even possible? There were two missed calls from Weston and a slew of texts.

Weston

How was the music festival?

Did you get home safe?

If you don’t answer, I’m calling Lauren.

Lauren said you're in your room sleeping.

Can I see you today? You know I’m leaving soon.