“I’m a doctor. We observe things.”
“Is that what you were doing in the parking lot? Observing?”
I glance at her, letting my eyes linger. “I was participating.”
“Participating in what?”
“An experiment.”
“And what were the results?”
“Inconclusive.” I bring her hand to my lips, brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Further testing required.”
She laughs—bright and surprised—and I want to bottle that sound and keep it forever.
We’re quiet for a few minutes, the radio playing softly. Then she asks, “Do you ever think about what things would have been like? If I hadn’t left?”
The question catches me off guard. I keep my eyes on the road. “Sometimes.”
“What do you imagine?”
I consider my answer carefully. “I imagine us finishing high school together. Going to the same college, probably. You studying literature, me doing pre-med. Weekend trips home to see Theo and Nate.” I pause. “I imagine us figuring things out together. Making mistakes together. Growing up together.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s a fantasy. Real life would have been messier.”
“Probably.” She’s quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. “I think about it too. What I missed. What we all missed.” She looks at me. “Do you think we can get it back? Any of it?”
I slow for a stop sign, turn to face her. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I don’t think we can get back what we lost. That version of us—the eighteen-year-old kids who thought they had forever—they’re gone. We’re different people now.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No.” I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles, then put the car back in gear. “I like who you’ve become. You’re stronger. More confident. You know yourself in a way you didn’t back then.”
“So do you.” She smiles. “Dr. Lucas Price. Pillar of the community. Rescuer of tanning bed victims.”
“Very distinguished.”
“Very boring sandwich.”
“The sandwich is good.” I squeeze her hand for emphasis.
“The sandwich is a metaphor for your fear of change.”
“The sandwich is a sandwich.”
“See, this is why I write fiction. I understand subtext.”
“There’s no subtext in a turkey sandwich.”
“Everything has subtext.” She gestures with her free hand. “The turkey represents safety. The lack of mayo represents emotional unavailability. The extra pickles?—”
“Please stop psychoanalyzing my lunch order.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. This. This is what I missed. Not just the kissing—though that was exceptional—but the banter. The easy back-and-forth. The way she makes me laugh at myself.
“Can I see you again?” I ask.
