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“So why are you here then?”
Haven started to reply, looking up from her plate, but her words trailed off when her gaze drifted past Gavin. Her eyes were drawn to the back of the restaurant, out of the glass wall and onto the patio, where a row of potted palm trees aligned the railing. “Palm trees.”
“Palm trees?” he asked, Haven’s attention returned to him when he spoke. “That’s why you came here?”
“No, well, uh . . .” She let out a sudden laugh, tears prickling her eyes. “I didn’t think there were any in New York.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, yeah, they imported them. You know, for ambiance. A bit tacky, but whatever.”
Gavin pried no more after that, but the damage had been done. Haven was distracted, her thoughts lodged in the distant past as her eyes continually drifted back to the patio, her food remaining untouched. She missed them all, more than she had wanted to admit, but she missed him most of all.
She tried not to dwell on Carmine, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Sometimes something small rubbed against the wound, reopening it, reminding her of what she tried to forget—not him, never him, but the ending. The devastation. The good-bye.
Or lack of one, really. The lack of closure. Without it, the wound could never properly heal. It would linger forever, fueled by the ideology of what could have been.
What could have been? It could have been Carmine there with her, exploring Central Park, traveling around New York. It could have been Carmine sitting across from her, not asking questions because he already knew the truth. He knew her past. He knew where she came from. He understood what she had gone through.
But it wasn’t him, and as she sat there, she allowed herself to feel that void again.
Gavin paid when they finished. They left the restaurant, neither speaking on the walk to her apartment. He reached over and took her hand halfway there, his fingers loosely linking with hers. She didn’t pull away, didn’t fight it. Her emotions were all over the place, up and down, a roller coaster of twisted thoughts and confusion.
“Thanks for today,” Gavin said, pausing in front of the brownstone.
“No, thank you. It was nice.”
“Nice.” He repeated the word, eyeing her peculiarly. “Nothing more?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful time, and I do like you.”
“But?”
“But I just . . .”
“Nothing more,” he repeated.
“Right.” She sighed. “It’s nothing you did. It’s just me, I guess.”
He let out a sudden, abrupt laugh that startled her. “Are you giving me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line?”
“No. Well, yes. It’s true, though. You’re really nice, and you have a great personality, but—”
“That’s what they say about ugly people,” he deadpanned.
She rolled her eyes. “No, it isn’t. It’s true. And you’re not ugly. You’re handsome.” She felt the blush rise to her cheeks at the admission. “Very handsome.”
“So what is it?”
She glanced down at their still connected hands. “There’s no spark. No electricity. No lightning.”
Something flickered in his eyes then, his face softening as he let go of her hand. “Ah.”
“I’m really sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” he said. “No harm done.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiled genuinely. “Absolutely.”
