“I’m glad you finally got your girl,” Dana says.
“Me, too,” I say.
I know they’re imagining something different. A future of love notes and flowers and mushy romance, but that’s not our reality now. Our reality is more concrete. More stoic, more reliable, more solid.
It might not be the fairytale they’re all picturing right now, but it’s enough, right? Of course it’s enough, it’s better.
As I squeeze Sarah’s hand, I’m grateful she feels the same. Grateful we’re on the same page about keeping love out of our equation.
It’s better this way, I’m sure of it.
Chapter 9
Sarah
I’m still reeling from Ian’s story as he leads me to the car after dinner. My brain is a little buzzy from the two glasses of champagne I drank after Trevor insisted we toast our engagement.
Or maybe it’s from learning something I’d never known before. How did I not have a clue Ian was interested in more than friendship back then? Call me an idiot, but I never saw it. I was focused on the immature frat boys I dated one after the other like interchangeable chess pieces, and Ian—well, he always had Julie. True, he never seemed serious about the long-distance girlfriend, but I chalked it up to age and miles.
Was there more to it than that?
And is he right that it’s a good thing we didn’t hook up back then? I sure as hell wasn’t ready for anything serious, and it sounds like he wasn’t, either.
“You have that look,” Ian says as he opens the passenger door for me. “That one you used to get when you were trying to puzzle out international trade flows and comparative economic systems.”
“I do?” I settle into the car, buying myself some time as he closes the door behind me and strides around the front of the car to the driver’s side.
Part of me is hoping he’ll forget by the time he gets behind the wheel, but no dice. “You seem like you’re deep in thought,” he says once he’s in the car and buckled up. “Did I say something wrong to Dana or Walter or”—he hesitates, brow creasing—“or you?”
“No, definitely not.” I shake my head as I grip the little sparkly Prada clutch Lisa loaned me. “You were great. Everything was awesome.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
I fiddle with the zipper on the clutch, stalling. “Was that story true? Did you really have feelings for me back when—back before?—”
Back when you had feelings.
Back before Shane died.
Neither of those is the kind thing to say, so I settle for the benign. “Back in college,” I finish. “Were you really interested in me that way, or was that just a story you told to seem?—”
“Human?”
I nod, not trusting myself yet to say anything more. To admit how shaken I am by the thought that nineteen-year-old Ian cared for me as more than a friend.
But thirty-year-old Ian is a different man. A man who’s sitting silently beside me, saying nothing as he eases out of the parking spot. He doesn’t speak until he’s merged onto the freeway, cars swishing past us in splashy puddles. “It was true.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until that moment. It comes out in a whoosh, and I’m grateful for the splash of standing water on the road to mask the sound.
But I don’t know if it’s relief or sadness I’m feeling. How did I not know?
“How did I not know?” If we’re saying things out loud, I might as well put that one out there.
He shrugs and signals right, taking the 205 exit. I’m only dimly aware that this isn’t the way to my house.
“I’ve never exactly worn my heart on my sleeve,” he says. “Not even when I had a heart.”
“But you do have a heart.” I don’t understand why he insists he doesn’t. “It’s still in there, Ian. You can’t just shut off that part of your life because some horrible things happen.”
