“Tell me what really happened? I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why your buddy would say those things if they weren’t true.”
The humor slides from his face. He adjusts in the booth. His fingernails pick at a missing piece of linoleum from the tabletop.
“Because he’s a fucking idiot.”
“Diego.”
He leans forward, his elbows hitting the table slightly too hard, and rattles the silverware.
“Sorry. But Izzy, he is. He’s never been close to a woman. He’s superficial and . . . he’s . . . Hollister.”
He seems at a sudden loss for words to describe his friend’s behavior. The waitress reappears with our drinks, sets them on the table, then pulls a pen from behind her ear and flips her pad open to take our order. Neither of us has a chance to look at the menu, but I choose the first thing I see.
Diego takes a little longer, contemplating the greasy food choices with a slight frown and then deciding on a burger. He’s not wrong to hope we don’t get food poisoning. I can’t imagine the Health Department has been to this place and deemed it safe to continue serving food.
“Why are you even friends with him?” I ask when she walks away. He grimaces and takes a drink from his beer bottle, avoiding the question. “Doesn’t matter. I just wanted?—”
“I was confused, Iz. It was after we had sex for the first time. You said it was a mistake and?—”
“No, you said it was a mistake,” I accuse, not letting him off the hook.
He frowns, going back to picking at the tabletop.
“I didn’t know what to make of it. I was happy, but then you weren’t, and the whole blame thing.” He covers my hand when I try to object to that last part. “I’m not rehashing that. I just felt out of place, or I don’t know, but I needed someone to talk to.”
“Poor choice,” I mutter, removing my hand from his to sip my water.
“Yeah, probably, he wasn’t any help.”
He shifts in his seat again, unzipping his leather jacket and removing it to reveal a tight graphic tee that fits him like a second skin. My mouth waters until I mentally scold myself.
“You know how people speak from experience, and you just know it because it’s a bunch of shit that doesn’t even fit the situation? That’s what he was doing. That’s how he came up with me doing what I did with you for a grade. In what universe would that have ever worked?”
He shakes his head, answering for both of us. I don’t interrupt, listening to whatever he wants to get off his chest.
“Iz, sure, I was attracted to you that first day. Who the fuck wouldn’t be? Look at you. But then I met my idol, who turned out to be your dad, and when you started translating his notes, I was blown away. You’ve got everything going for you. Everything. To be honest, I was a little intimidated. Like, Diego, why would she like you back? She’s her, and you’re you. But then, in the urgent care, when you reached for me, shit, I was done for.”
He falls back in the booth, gazing away at the memory of that moment as if it’s happening all over again beside us. A softness overtakes his concentrated features, and then a glimpse of a smile.
“We agreed on complicated. I believed it. And fuck, isn’t it? But you’ve seen my life, I can do complicated. Hell, I thrive off complicated. Simple is boring. Sneaking around. Trying not to get caught. Sharing a secret that only you and I know . . . sorry, sorry, poor choice of words. But it’s exhilarating to me.”
He’s quick to correct himself, but the softness in his features remains. There is a genuineness about him that tugs at my heartstrings.
“I like what we have. Like what we’ve started. Fuck Holli, he won’t tell. I promise you he won’t.”
I stare at him, my fingers tightening around the cold glass of water. He’s rambling, the words tumbling out of him faster than he can think them through.
There’s a rawness there.
A truth I wasn’t prepared for.
It’s disarming.
He’s lowering my defenses and slowly converting me to see things from his point of view. The first time on the bike was messy between us, both having said the wrong things. While I processed it alone, he talked to a friend. I understand, even if I don’t like the friend he chose.
“Diego, it’s not just about your friend,” I say, cutting through the air between us. “It’s about trust. What else are you not telling me? Are there any other conversations or discussions about me or us that I need to be aware of? “
“I know,” he admits quietly, but those dark eyes stare so hard into me that I’m sure he can see the emotional lump in my throat. “I fucked up. I told another friend, Dominic, about your dad and you. But that’s it. Just two.”
