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A tsunami of old resentment hits. “You asshole.” I seethe. “Showing up here? Now? Acting like you want to meet your godson? You’re twelve years too late.”
“I know,” he says mutedly.
“No, you don’t!” To my horror, tears fill my eyes, and my mouth spills words I have no control over. “I needed you then, Lucas. I needed my best friend. His best friend. But you turned your back on me, on us.” My voice cracks. “I don’t know what you’re playing at right now, but if you’re looking for forgiveness, it’s never gonna happen.”
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he murmurs. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. When his eyes find mine, I can hardly stand the pain in them. Which only makes me more angry.
“I should have been there,” he whispers brokenly. “I’m sorry, okay? Peapod. I’m sorry.”
For a pregnant moment, I feel the old, sparkling bond ignite. The encompassing sense of closeness and trust that signified our friendship from that first night until the last. Until I ruined it. Ruined everything. The urge to run into his arms is almost overwhelming.
But I’m not a teenager anymore.
“You can come to the game, but you’re driving separately. And I want you to leave before it’s over. I’m not ready for you to meet my son.”
Relief floods his face as he nods. “Deal.”
8
I moved my stuff into my old bedroom earlier this week, after irrefutable evidence that one night spent in the trailer up at Wild Lake was one night too many. I didn’t sleep and wound up prowling around in the dark until I ended up in the last place I wanted to be.
The cove. Our cove.
I could barely face it, barely handle the punch of self-loathing and misery that hit when I stepped onto the familiar rocks. All I saw was Celeste at sixteen, nervous and trembling as she pulled off her dress to expose her body in that tiny bikini. Baring herself to me—not him, me—with perfect innocence and trust.
Kissing her, feeling like every shitty moment of my life was wiped away as her inexpert hands explored my shoulders, was the single best moment of my life until that point. Hell, it probably still is, if I really think about it.
But then, when I got back to Eagle Cabin, I found Jeremy waiting for me with his confession, unknowing that I had one of my own. I was still dazed, half-hard, baffled, and buzzing with elation. I barely heard him the first time. But he said it again, and that time, he asked me for my blessing. He told me he was in love with her and asked me to let him have a chance. To stand aside. I’d never told him about my own feelings, but he knew.
Second to the phone call from my mom telling me Jeremy had died in the line of duty, that moment ranked as the worst of my life.
And fuck me, but I told him I would. Not because I didn’t want Celeste for myself—I’d wanted her for at least two years at that point—but because Jeremy was the better one of us. He came from a happy family. He was generous, kind, and loving. And I knew, deep down, that I’d never be as good as him. I’d never be as good for Celeste as he would be, never make her as happy as he could.
Ignoring her the next morning was fucking torture. Even worse was the devastation on her face when I flirted with another girl in front of her. But her reaction only solidified that I’d made the right decision.
Celeste deserved a white knight.
I was a villain.
Now, as I sit next to Celeste in a camping chair on the sidelines of Damien’s game, I pretend I’m not breaking apart inside. That seeing him—this boy on the cusp of manhood whose entire life I’ve missed—doesn’t feel like acid rain on my heart.
He looks like both of them. Jeremy’s dark hair and eyes, Celeste’s sun-kissed skin. What I see of his face as he races back and forth is a startling mix of my childhood best friends. His nose. Her mouth. His forehead. Her cheekbones. I almost choke on a longing I don’t understand, coming from a place I’ve spent years burying deep.
When I notice Celeste’s questioning glances, I plaster a smile on my face. “He’s really good.”
She nods. “He’s been playing since he was four.” Her voice is cool, but pride thickens the words. “Did you ever get married? Any kids?”
I stiffen in surprise, an action she doesn’t miss but marks with narrowing eyes. “Uh, yes, but no kids.” She glances at my ring finger, which is bare, then frowns. I answer the implied question. “Divorced nine years.”
I can see her thinking about timing and want to tell her the truth—that I lost my ever-loving mind after Jeremy died, after seeing her pregnant and grieving. I flew home to Seattle and promptly asked my girlfriend of six months to marry me. Two years later, we parted amicably. While I’ve had serious relationships since, I’ve never felt compelled to ask again.
I focus on the game, hoping my voice is casual. “What about you? Boyfriend?”
Celeste snorts. “No time for that.”
My gaze snaps to her face. She’s looking at me, blue-green eyes frank and challenging.
“Ever?” I ask, shocked.
