He opened his mouth, then shut it again, a tight smile finding his lips before he gestured to the next tent.
I wondered if I was thinking what he was, if I’d read the implication of those words he’d muttered correctly.
He wasn’t to blame for the injury that ended his hockey career.
But he was to blame for the ending of us.
The Guilty One
Ariana
2013
Three knocks on the window next to our table made us scream.
I was out to dinner with my boss and two of my coworkers, celebrating a successful holiday fundraiser event for the family services nonprofit I’d been working with for a little over a year. I had childcare for Georgie for the evening, a rare occurrence, and was excited to have a glass of wine and eat as much pasta as I could without feeling sick.
But one glance at the man outside the window, and it was a futile hope.
I was sick instantly.
Shane McCabe stood on the other side of that glass, snow falling down around him and sticking to the brown beanie and dark green parka he wore over his hoodie. The six years that had passed since I’d last seen him were evident in his every feature, from the scruff lining his square jaw to the angular shape of his face. Gone was the softness of the young Shane I’d fallen in love with. He was all sharp angles now, from his jaw to the bones over his eyes.
Those eyes were somehow the same and so different I hardly recognized them. They were still that sharp blue-gray, as strikingas ever — but they were haunted now, adding to the eerie image of him standing in front of me after all this time.
He truly was like a ghost, so much so that I blinked several times to be sure it wasn’t my brain playing tricks on me.
His mouth was slightly open, his brows raised in surprise, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, either.
Once my own shock settled, I realized he was slumped, that tiredness in his eyes evident in the lines of his face and the sad way in which he carried himself.
And that’s when I saw what I hadn’t before.
He was on crutches.
“Do you know this man?” my boss asked, one hand pressed to her chest like she was steadying her pulse. She was smiling a little now that we all knew there was no evident threat, but a strange man staring at us wasn’t exactly comforting, either.
“I did once,” I answered.
I apologized, excusing myself from the table and asking the hostess for my coat before I shrugged it on along with my hat and scarf. Then, I braved the winter cold.
The snow was falling harder now, softening the noise of the city. Shane stood against the brick, away from the window, the glow from Christmas lights painting a serene image for what felt like an impending car crash in my mind.
I stopped a few feet away from him, hands buried in the pockets of my coat.
For a long moment, we just stared at one another. The disbelief had passed, but neither of us knew what to say.
My body’s natural impulse was to break down. I felt it in the sting of my nose, the prickling behind my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run to him. I wanted to hug him and be held and kiss him stupid and thank the universe for bringing us together again. I wanted to hit him and scream and look him right in theeyes when I said he’s dead to me and has been for years, that I never want to see him again, that I’m better without him.
I stood frozen to the spot, instead.
“I can’t believe I found you,” he finally whispered, the words puffing out in a white cloud as his eyes searched the entire length of me like I was a mirage.
“Because I’m sure you looked so hard,” I deadpanned.
Atta girl.
Be cold. Ice him out. He left you. He doesn’t get your smiles and “so great to see you” now.
