“And then, book seven…” Her words fall away.
Barrett became a little rigid after Delilah left. I didn’t have it in me to give Barrett any other life than his career, and I guess, it’s because I also didn’t allow any other life for me either.
“Do you miss her?” she asks, and the question takes me off guard.
“I…” I stammer.
She shrugs her shoulders. “I just mean, I miss feeling like I belong with someone, even if I know we don’t belong together.”
My breath catches at the way she says this. A truth so easily spoken.
“The man you talked about on the stage?” I ask.
“Boy,” she corrects. “High school sweetheart and all that.”
She saysall thatlike what she experienced wasn’t a big deal, like it was just part of the process of growing up.
“Not that I want to compare heartache or anything,” she quickly rattles off. “I’m sorry. For Delilah, but I’m also kind of not sorry.”
I furrow my brows. “And why is that?”
“You wouldn’t be here eating tacos with me right now,” she says with a smile. “Have you been with anyone else since then?”
“Not really,” I answer. “A few dates. Half-hearted things. But I couldn’t risk letting anyone in. Not again.”
“And yet, here you are,” she says, her voice almost teasing but soft. “Letting me in?”
It’s a question.
“I’m letting you in,” I say to confirm what she’s asking.
Her face flushes a little, but she doesn’t look away. She meets my gaze head-on, brave and unflinching. “I’m not Delilah.”
“I know.” I swallow. “You’re Rachel Perry, the woman that reads between my lines.”
She laughs. “I figured there was more to the story than the one you were telling. There always is.”
“So, thisboy,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I think the pinky swear was only one bad dating story for another,” she teases as she stands up from the table.
“Mine was obviously worth more than the taco story,” I tease slightly, standing to match her.
I take a small step toward her, shrinking the distance between us significantly. I can smell her perfume of gardenias and warmth—she’s the sun. I’m sure of it. The best parts of it.
“I mean, I did cure your taco aversion,” I add.
“And my taste buds thank you. Truly, they do. They thought the savory flavor of tacos would forever be lost to them, but here, you’ve restored tacos to their original glory. My taste buds will most likely erect some sort of statue in your honor,” she declares with enough passion that it makes me feel my dimples denting my cheeks.
I take a step closer and can hear the way her breath seizes. I realize I like making her go quiet this way. Not the way she’s been quiet for the past few weeks.
“So, your taste buds don’t hate me like you do?” I ask.
“I don’t hate you,” she argues, looking up at me. “But, even if I did, my taste buds choose your side. It’s a full-on rebellion goingon in my mouth. I’ll have to do some serious campaigning to win them back over to my side. It’ll probably take several vanilla lattes to convince them.”
“That’s some serious work you have ahead of you,” I reply, reaching out and brushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
Can she feel this, too? The way that an inch is too much space between us. The way my hands are trembling, wanting to wrap around her waist and pull her in so I can breathe in the warmth of her fully. The way my lips want to know if her skin is as soft as I imagine it would be.
