I still can’t fathom why I ignored Rebecca’s warnings. I convinced myself I was healing. I forced smiles, chased laughter, clung to tiny sparks of joy. Deep down, I knew her advice was right, but I refused to let it in.
If Keaton hadn’t walked through the doors of Grinders today, maybe I wouldn’t have been hit so brutally with the truth. I’m nowhere nearhealed.
I’m dealing with a customer when he strolls in, and I don’t have time to do much more than shoot him a smile.
Some days, seeing him is effortless. Other days, just a glance fills me with sadness and anger. On those days, nausea rises and memories claw their way back, refusing to let me move forward.
That alone should have been a red flag that I was forcing myself to be fine with his presence.
Warning signs are not my thing, it seems.
Keaton waits quietly at the edge of the counter, his tattooed hands buried in his pockets. When I finally face him, he greets me with a warmth I can’t quite trust.
“Hey. Do you think you could give me a few minutes of your time?” he asks in a serious voice.
My gaze drifts over him, tracing the new ink winding across his muscles as he shifts restlessly.
He’s definitely added more since the last time I saw him around.
A flicker of something volatile sparks inside me, chased quickly by a shiver of fear.
Nope. No way. No freaking way.
I step back, arms hugging my ribs. "I don’t know."
“Please? I promise this won’t take long.”
His eyes beg me for something I’m not sure I can give. I bite my lip, curiosity winning out. I sigh. "Fine. Go sit down. I’ll grab a coffee."
His shoulders sag as he walks away. I turn, putting my back to him and everything he brings with him.
I don’t care that something weighs heavily on him.
I don’t.
My hand trembles as I slam the cup down. I stab the scooper into the ice, cursing under my breath, and pile on the chips. White chocolate mocha in hand, I stride out from behind the counter, every step fueled by adrenaline.
"You’ve got a few minutes," I say, dropping into the booth with a heavy thud.
Keaton fidgets, picking at anything on the table to avoid my eyes. To a stranger, he might look guilty. But I know him. Or at least, I used to.
Or at least, I did.
This is what Keaton is like when he’s nervous.
It doesn’t comfort me. If anything, it makes my nerves prickle.
“Would you just tell me whatever you came to say? You can’t break me any more than I already am.”
His head jerks up at my cracked words, his eyes wide and filled with regret at the pain he hears in them.
“God. Fuck no, Charlie. I’m so sorry that’s your first thought.” He sits back and rubs his hands over his ashen face. “I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t know what made me think this was a good idea.”
“What wasn’t a good idea?”
“Coming here to see if you’d come have dinner with me.”
“Like a date?” I ask incredulously.
