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Ignoring my last comment, he asks, “Okay, but where is he?”
“Who?” I shake my head, confused.
“Your boyfriend.” His eyes meet mine, and he waits.
“That’s. . . none of your business. He’s Dr. Douchet,” I say without thinking, but now I regret it. It feels so gross even pretending to date Thad.
“Why didn’t he come get you?” he prompts.
“He’s busy,” I retort, looking down at my phone to see if he’s bothered to text back to check on me. He hasn’t. And I don’t even know why I thought he would. Frustrated, I look back out the window.
“I see.”
“Oh, what do you see?” I snark, turning to look at him.
“Callie. . .” He sighs, frustrated as he pulls into the auto body shop and puts the truck in park.
I glare at him and then open my door and get out. After slamming it closed, I turn and realize I have no idea how I’ll get home. I put my face in my hands and groan. This day just can’t get any worse.
He comes around and stands next to me. Digging into his pocket, he pulls out and hands me a set of keys.
I reach to take the keys, and when our hands touch, I feel the warmth of his skin. My fingertips inadvertently feel his calluses from working, and I wonder what they would feel like touching me. Touching him after all these years feels like coming home, yet he says nothing. He just stares at me, watching my face, like he’s looking for clues. I glance down, not wanting to look back at him. Then I realize he’s still holding the keys in my hand, so I pull my hand back quickly. I want so badly to run into the arms of the SJ from before. I don’t know this version of him anymore. And he’s not mine. Maybe he never really was. Now I’m questioning everything. Was it even real?
“You can use the Prius over there as a loaner until we can get you fixed up,” he politely offers.
“Why?” I ask him, and he knows I’m not asking about the car.
He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his messy dark hair. “Does it matter? You seem like you’re all set with Dr. Douche.”
“It’s Douchet!” I yell, putting my hands on my hips.
“Doesn’t matter, Cal,” he says, his eyes still on mine. “I’ll still be the one you think about twenty years from now. He’s not the guy, and you know it.”
Are you freaking kidding me?The cockiness in this guy. Who does he think he is? Also, why is that overt confidence so damn hot? He’s confusing me and making me question everything. I long for my SJ, the one with quiet confidence. But I can’t deny that I’m not intrigued by this newer, darker version of him.
I’m already in crisis mode, not sure of who I am anymore. Add in this tumultuous reunion, and it’s safe to say my heart, mind, and lady parts are at total war. Why couldn’t he have returned a little less handsome and more washed up? Why do we still have this insane chemistry that flares from a mere look? There are too many questions, and I’m too damn tired to figure any of the answers out.
“What makes you think he’s not the guy for me?” I question. “You don’t even know him.”
He crosses his arms and smirks at me. “Because he’s the type of guy who leaves you stranded after you just finished working a long shift.” He tilts his head and stares at me like he’s challenging me. The old SJ never would have left me there stranded. We both know it. But this SJ? No, he just kept me waiting fortwelve years.
I narrow my eyes. His audacity makes me livid.
“You don’t get to do that!” I yell. “No. Just no.” I swivel around and stalk toward him. He doesn’t move, and his eyes don’t leave mine. His sexy, wide jaw clenches, ready for whatever blow I’m about to deliver. He’s ready to take whatever I dish out. I can feel it.
“Was it easy for you all those years?” I challenge, getting in his space. “Was your life better without me? Did all your dreams come true without me there to drag you down?” I lean into him and push an index finger into his chest. And it’s solid. Even though I’m so mad, I still wonder what it would be like to run my palm over his chest. I hate that I still miss him.
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t move. He’s still, and his eyes continue gazing into mine. They hold the weight of the world and are duller now, like life stole away his happiness, replacing it with this heavy sadness. Thirty-year-old SJ has the saddest whiskey eyes I’ve ever seen. His eighteen-year-old whiskey eyes were full of hope and happiness. I don’t know these eyes and what they’ve seen. And this is when I know I can’t hate him. Because when I fell in love with SJ, I fell in love with those kind eyes. And he might have changed over the years, but we have seen and been through so many things together.
He turns away from me and stalks toward the shop. I can feel his anger pulsing through both of us. Good. I want him to feel what I’ve felt. It must be nice to be so calm when he’s made me feel so lonely and worthless.
“Oh no, you don’t get to walk awayagain. . .” I start to say. He abruptly stops, then spins and stomps back toward me like a charging bull.
I back up until my back hits the truck, and I can’t move any farther. I know he won’t hurt me, but he’ssoclose. His jaw tenses, his eyes blazing, and his brow lowers. His shoulders are so tense that one stone thrown at him would crack and dismantle him. His hands shake, and his eyes hold so much pain in them it leaves me breathless like I’ve been gutted.
“No!” he yells. “I’ve missed you every single day. Every single second, Callie. You have no idea what I did for you and for us.” His voice cracks. “You’ll probably never know,” he bites out.
“You left me when I needed you. You left me with them,” I sob. “You knew how horrible they were, and you left me!”
