I look left. Nothing.
I look right, and—
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Ace is standing there, because apparently God has a sick sense of humor and wants me to suffer. He's wearing jeans and a henley that's doing absolutely criminal things to his shoulders, a puffer jacker in his hand, and his hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and I want to scream into the fucking void.
"Hey," he says.
"What are you doing here?" It comes out more accusatory than I intended, but whatever. I'm having a night.
"I—"
"You know what, never mind, I don't care." I spin back toward the bar, taking another gulp of whiskey. "I'm in the middle of a crisis."
"What kind of crisis?"
"The 'I got stood up twice in one week' kind of crisis." I wave my hand dramatically.
Ace slides onto the barstool next to me. "That sucks."
"It does suck, thank you!"
Ace is quiet for a moment. Then: "There was a fender bender."
I blink at him. "Okay...?"
"On the corner of Maple and 5th. Traffic's backed up for blocks."
"Cool. Riveting traffic update. Thanks so much."
"That's why I'm late."
CHAPTER 17
ACE
THESE EYES TELL a story, and I'm not sure I'll like the ending.
Devon’s stare is almost blank at first as he looks at me, unblinking, long lashes curling up slightly in the corners. Have I ever noticed that before? It's such a minute detail, insignificant, but it's my life raft. Because if it weren't for those lashes, I'd have no choice but to look at the rest of Devon's face and find out how he feels about me when hegets it.
It takes him approximately ninety seconds toget it. I can pinpoint the moment with surgical precision, the exact sliver of time when his pupils widen, just a fraction of a millimeter but enough for me to notice, and the longer lashes in the corner of his eyes move.
"You…" he starts, then pauses, sucking in his lower lip and scrunching his eyebrows like he's trying to solve a particularly complicated puzzle. Meanwhile, I'm fighting hard to keep my mouth firmly closed, to stop myself from slipping into a tirade of excuses or apologies or a myriad of dumb shit thatwould inevitably come out if I let myself speak. So I don't, giving him the freedom to form whatever opinion he's about to form before I dive into damage control. "I'm sorry," he finally says, his expression frozen in concentration. "I'm not sure I follow."
I swallow around the pulsing lump in my throat. "I think you follow just fine."
Devon takes a few seconds to study my face, and I've never known time could move this damn slow. "Can you spell it out for me, just in case?"
I can't, actually. I can't, because my ears are ringing, and my brain fights to figure out why the bartender is shooting me weird looks and why I'm suddenly feeling every injury from the past five years flaring up in my body. Best I can do is, "Your roommate's mom really came through."
His eyes grow large now, larger than I've ever seen them, as the realization seems to fully settle in, and his next words are so quiet I barely catch them amidst the commotion of the bar around us. "Oh my God."
"Yeah."
"Oh my God."
"I know."
