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We both sit down, me on the bench opposite him. There are already waters on the table and a giant plate of nachos in the middle.
“I see you eyeing them up, and yes, they’re for the both of us,” he says. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “And Adam, of course.”
My skin heats. “Don’t start.”
“Start what? Poking you for information about your boss? I would never.”
I grab a bunch of loaded tortilla chips and shove them in my mouth. Chewing slowly, I watch Leo lean forward, looking like he’s getting ready to dig into a conversation I know will make me uncomfortable.
“I’m a bit offended that you haven’t mentioned Adam in any of our phone calls or texts since you started working at WIT. Then all of a sudden, I get a text asking if it’s okay that he comes to dinner? You threw me for a loop, Letty, and now you don’t want me to bug you about it? Nu-uh. Don’t think so.”
I swallow the nachos and take a drink of water before slowly setting the glass back down and meeting Leo’s stare. Despite his words, he doesn’t look upset. Just curious.
“Why don’t we start with catching up? Not talking about Adam.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “Well, I’ve been playing hockey, working out, and sleeping. What have you been doing other than trying not to bang your stupid-hot boss and coaching a sixteen-year-old prodigy?”
“Okay. Point taken,” I grumble.
I’ve never been annoyed with how often Leo and I talk, but right now, I’m far beyond it.
He frowns. “Actually, tell me about your mom. Now that I think about it, you’ve been a bit sticky with me about that topic.”
Ice spreads through my chest. “She’s getting worse.”
“Shit, love. How much worse?”
“I’ve been looking at in-home caretakers for when I’m at work or doing anything, really. She’s been forgetting more and more. Two days ago, our neighbour found her standing on the curb wearing her nightgown and yelling at one of the teenagers in the house across the street, accusing him of sleeping around on her daughter.”
It was mortifying having to get home from work and apologize to everyone in the neighbourhood for the disruption, especially the teenager at the forefront of her wrath. He did look a lot like my high school boyfriend, Bradley, so I can see how she put two and two together to equal five.
It makes it worse that she doesn’t remember doing it. There’s nothing I can say or do to help her. She can’t just get better. This will never go away.
“It’s exhausting. And I feel guilty for having this . . . anger and frustration in my heart. It’s not like I’m the one suffering with the disease. What do I really have to complain about?”
Emotion burns behind my eyes when Leo reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. I tip my head back and blink to try and clear the film from my vision.
“You’re allowed to feel exactly how you are right now. Yes, it’s not you with the disease, but you’re suffering also. You’re watching your mother lose herself, knowing there isn’t anything you can do to stop it. Never feel like you can’t hurt too. You’re human, Scarlett, and humans feel. It’s our greatest gift and our worst punishment,” he murmurs.
“Fuck,” I whisper. A tear escapes before I quickly swipe it away. “You should have been a therapist.”
He squeezes my hand. “Nah. You’re one of the few people I care about enough to talk like this with. My sensitive side is very picky about who it shows itself to.”
“Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”
“You’re probably ri—shit,” he curses, something to the left of me catching his attention. Surprise flares in his eyes before he squeezes my hand once more and looks at me, releasing my hand. “Letty, your man is on his way over here, and from the venom in the glare he’s shooting me, I’m guessing he noticed your tears.”
“What?” I whip my head to the side and gasp at what I see.
My mouth goes dry—sand in the desert dry. Adam’s scowl does little to distract me from the rippling of his biceps beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt or the bulging veins in his forearms as he jams his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans and clenches them.
Like that time in the grocery store, he’s wearing a hat on backward. Pieces of curly brown hair peek out beneath it and curl behind his ears and at the base of his neck. My fingers twitch, wanting nothing more than to push his hat off and run through his hair.
By the time I grab hold of myself, he’s already standing at the table, towering over us. His eyes are no longer two angry pits of dark brown; they’re steaming cups of hot chocolate.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice tight with concern. My tongue lies limp in my mouth when he lifts my chin with his finger and presses it with his thumb. “You’re crying.”
“Hello to you too, Adam,” Leo sings.
