Do you regret it?
That’s what I want to ask, but I don’t. I’m too much of a coward, afraid he’ll say yes. I’ve complicated his already complex life. Even with what happened between us last night, it would be easier for him without me.
Heck, it would be easier for me too. Better. Safer. So why does the thought of never meeting him make my chest ache like a wound I can’t close? I should want that. Should want to have stayed far away from this dark, twisted world. But somehow, I don’t.
He’s forbidden fruit, and even though it may poison me, I can’t stop myself fromtaking a bite.
***
We go to Bitter Ends, the campus coffee shop with too much attitude and not enough seating. I order the Summa Cum Latte. It’s vanilla, caramel, espresso, and just enough shame to make it worth it.
Carrson studies the chalkboard menu like he’s reading classified intel, then smirks and says, “I’ll take the Dark Like My Soul, extra bitter.”
“Shocker,” I mutter, handing the barista my card before he can. “A little too on brand, don’t you think?” I tease as we head toward a seat by the window.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His chin lifts with mock pride, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth he can’t quite suppress.
The table’s small, round, and sticky. Carrson wipes it with a napkin before sitting down, and I watch with thinly veiled amusement as he tries to casually not care that his sleeves are brushing crumbs. A bowl of raw sugar packets sitson the table, next to a bottle of hot sauce, because I swear they put that stuff on everything down here.
Our drinks arrive. Mine with a heart drawn in the foam. His looks like mud.
He peers down at it. “This probably tastes like regret.”
“You picked it,” I point out, already sipping mine with a contented sigh. “Live with the consequences.”
He takes a slow, suspicious sip. Grimaces. Then grunts, “Perfect.”
I snort into my cup.
We sit in silence for a minute, peacefully drinking our coffee. Outside the window, dry leaves spin in tight circles, whipped by the wind. Students hurry past, with strained expressions and textbooks clutched to their chests. The bell tower tolls, once, twice, three times, low and deep, like it’s trying to wake something ancient. It’s the kind of old-South resonance that makes you think of steeples and Civil War widows dabbing their eyes with lace handkerchiefs.
I blow on my coffee to watch the steam dance away, then reform.
“When we walked here,” Carrson says, drawing my attention back to him. “You were skipping from spot to spot on the sidewalk. You did it when we went to see your dad too. What’s that about?”
“Oh.” I shrink into myself, embarrassed he noticed. “It’s stupid. Just this thing I do.”
He waits, letting the silence stretch, not pressuring, just leaving space for me to fill.
“My mom died in a car crash when I was nine,” I say, tracing the edge of my cup so I don’t have to look at him. “We’d gotten in a fight before she left. Something stupid. I wanted her to wash my favorite jeans, but she said she didn’t have time. She was late for work.”
I pause, bite my lower lip, then force myself to continue.
“She was a schoolteacher. High school. That morning, I was so mad at her.” I swallow hard. “You know the rhyme, ‘step on a crack, break your mother’s back.’ When I walked to school, I deliberately stepped on every crack. Wishing it wouldhurt her.”
Shame roughens my voice, makes it hoarse. My eyes sting as the memory rushes back. The knock at the door, the officers in the hall, my father collapsing to his knees.
My guilt. The unshakable belief that I’d caused it somehow.
I sniffle. “Anyway, I felt bad about it, after. Now, when I remember, I try not to step on the cracks.” My gaze darts to his face, then away. “I know it’s childish.”
Carrson doesn’t say anything, and for a minute I panic, afraid I’ve revealed too much, which is crazy considering how he saw me last night. Raw, unfiltered, unraveling in his arms, but still this conversation makes me feel naked in ways that have nothing to do with clothing.
Slowly, he reaches across the table. For a second, his fingers hover, like he’s unsure, but then he commits. His hand, warm and steady, drifts down to settle on mine. It’s not a grand gesture. Not a loud declaration of solidarity or love. Just the brush of his thumb against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse and yet it does something. A knot that’s been buried in my chest for years loosens, just enough for me to breathe.
“What was she like?” he asks softly. “Your mom?”
I blink down at our hands, his thumb still moving in slow, grounding circles against my skin. The answer lodges in my throat, swelling with more feeling than I expected.
