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Abraham is silent as he continues to stare at me, the same one that used to keep me rooted in place, waiting for him to lead me into whatever it was we were doing back then. It angers me.
“You think you can walk in here and woo me?” I sit back, crossing my arms, both of my drinks untouched on the table before me.
“I don’t think I can woo you. Honestly, I don’t think anyone can.” He leans forward. “But we were in love once, no?”
I start to shake my head with a smirk but when I catch his gaze, I part my lips, unsure of where this is heading.
His eyes gleam under the muted lights but his expression is serious.
“I was an asshole. But that doesn’t have to make you a liar,” he whispers. “I was in love with you,Stellina.”
He leans forward, grabs his glass, and downs its contents in my silence.
Seconds pass as he appraises me, his tongue peeking out to catch the excess liquid that pooled at the corners of his lips.
“If I’m going to be the only honest person here, I’ll say what needs to be said. Let’s not waste another four years without each other.” His eyes don’t soften, there’s no melodic humor in his tone to take the edge away. “I’ve never felt about another woman the way I feel about you. And I’m certain I never will.”
The sound of my chair scraping as I scoot back to get some much needed distance from him causes a few people to stare at us. But I don’t care as I stand, wanting to press my hands to my ears.
“I’m not interested in rewriting the past,” I lie. I have to lie. This fucking asshole thinks he can snap his fingers and change everything.
“You already rewrote it. And in that version, I didn’t fall in love with you. And I wasn’t ready to give everything to you.” He speaks with fervor, so quick, his accent licks at his vowels like a flame. “I promise to be better in this version.”
I scoff and we stare at one another, unsure of what comes next. But I tell myself to let myself do what I really want to do, even if just for a few moments.
What about Peter?
I stare at the drinks on the table and reach for the vodka tonic he ordered me, downing it in a few gulps.
What about Peter?
“Where are you staying?” I ask him, returning the smile that spreads across his lips, altering his features in that beautiful way of his.
What about Peter?
“I’ll call my car,” he answers instead, and while he pulls out his phone, I stare at the glass of red wine. A safer bet, a sweeter option.
What about Peter?
What’s safe is no match for the exhilaration of a past I once ran from.
