“No.”
“Because you want to see me fail?”
“No, because that would involve talking and playing the game together, which we aren’t, because I’m still mad.”
“Now, hold on a second,” Tate began. “Are you mad at me because I didn’t string you along during a long-distance relationship when you were a teenager and I was entering college, or are you mad because I gave you the car? Or,” hepaused again. “Are you mad because you still want me like crazy and hate that you are facing that fact now?”
“You’re annoying.”
“So, it’s answer number three,” he chuckled. “You want me, but don’t want to admit it to yourself.”
“No – it’s all the above.”
“Including number three.”
“Excludingnumber three.”
“Sure.”
“It’s true.”
“That you want me? Oh, I know – but – we’re not talking,” Tate said, replacing the pegs in the board once more and starting the game again. Every time he would move one of the little pegs, he’d look at her for approval. She hated that it felt like he was gloating, that he had the upper hand, and when he was about to move a peg – she grabbed the board, took the peg from him, and placed it in a different spot.
“We’re not talking,” she said glumly, moving to play the game in his place. “We’re not talking because we always end up at each other’s throats, and I can’t keep up with the mind games coming off of you in waves.”
“Fair enough,” he said simply, tapping the empty spot for her to place the peg – and she did. “I hate that every time I’m making an attempt to draw you into a conversation, a moment, or reach out to you, it feels like I’m getting slapped down into the dirt for existing.”
“I don’t do that.”
“The fruit basket,” he said pointedly.
“That was you?” she harrumphed in disbelief, rolling her eyes. “Fruit soup.”
Tate’s brows knitted together, his mouth parting as if she’d spoken a foreign language. “What do you mean, ‘fruit soup’?”
She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep her expression neutral, but the memory of that soggy disaster was too ridiculous not to bubble up. “I thought it might have been, but I wasn’t sure…” Her voice trailed off as her irritation came flooding back.
“So you didn’t ask?” His tone was more accusative than questioning.
“No,” she said, lifting her chin with indignation. “Because I thought, ‘Surely Tate wouldn’t leave this in the rain for hours…’”
“I wouldn’t,” he protested, his eyes going wide, almost boyish in their offense.
Her laugh had no humor in it this time. “It was full of water, Tate. The paper was mush. And the bananas?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if confiding some great crime. “Smashed. Because I tripped over the stupid thing and?—”
“And that’s my fault?” he cut in, indignation flaring. “I paid for delivery! And I wish you had said something, because I would have asked to have it replaced.” He shook his head, a hand dragging through his hair in frustration. “I’ve never paid ninety-nine bucks for two apples, two oranges, a few bananas, and about six feet of ribbon—but for you, I would.”
Her chest gave a little squeeze at the admission, but Nettie wasn’t about to let him see that. She crossed her arms, tossing him a sharp look. “Nobody asked you to.”
“Maybe I wanted to.”
His words landed between them like a stone in water, rippling outward in the silence that followed. Nettie’s heartbeat stuttered as warmth crept uninvited into her cheeks. She scrambled to find her footing, to protect herself with sarcasm like she always did.
“Why?” she demanded, the single word heavy with suspicion.
Tate exhaled hard, like he’d been holding that breath for years. His voice cracked with frustration, but beneath it wassomething rawer, something that made Nettie’s stomach twist. “I’m trying to get you to notice me, dang it.”
Her laugh this time was too loud, too defensive. “I’m noticing—I’m noticing a lot!”
