Landon’s eyes soften. “Yes.”
“Should I move out?” I blurt and wince again. Another question I should have eased into, but I’m sure it’s on his mind as much as mine.
Landon sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want you to move out,” he says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. I’m just not sure who it’s aimed at. Me? Him? The situation? “I just…give me some time. I need…time.”
“Time for what?” I ask, but I know.
Time to forget that night ever happened.
Time to forget the looks, the banter, the touches, the charge, all seared into my mind like a brand. I don’t think forty years would help me forget.
The timer beeps before he can respond. Not knowing what else to do, I reach up and grab the bag from the microwave, pinching open the top to let out the heat. I frown at the slightly burnt smell rising off the kernels.
“I did exactly what the bag said,” I mutter. “How the hell are these burnt?”
“Well, at least you didn’t nearly burn the house down.”
“I can pop a bag of popcorn without lighting shit on fire,” I say defensively. “It’s not rocket science. This bag must be faulty.”
“You’re supposed to take it out of the microwave when the popping stops, regardless of time. Everyone knows that.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because you get defensive when I tell you what to do, and then you do the opposite.”
“I donot.”
“Case in point,” he mutters under his breath, and for a second, it feels normal between us. It feels likebefore, and I wonder if maybe thereishope. Maybe he’s right, and we just need time to move past what happened.
But I’m not sure I’m capable of moving past it.
I’m not sure I want to.
* * *
The problem is life goes on whether you want it to or not, and time creates distance. It’s been almost a month since the pool. Landon and I have stopped tiptoeing around each other, and with every week, it’s easier to accept the reality of our situation. With every day, our conversation becomes less stilted and more normal, and with every hour, the bruising incurred to my heart continues to fade.
Mostly, I just pretend that night never happened. I focus on work, I throw myself into baking, and I take out my emotions on the pavement when I run. I hang with Brit and Sienna and spend more and more time at Randall’s, especially now that he’s employing Parker. It’s the perfect opportunity to make them taste-test my new recipes, Parker’s kind suggestions softening the blow of Randall’s brutal honesty. He’s never afraid to tell me when something could use an adjustment. I think he enjoys it, actually.
Landon’s been staying later at the office, and in the brief time he’s home, he always seems stressed, and he’s always on his phone. I hear the muffled calls through his office wall, and I wonder if they have anything to do with finding a new investor.
On occasion, I’ll catch him watching me with a strange look in his eye, one I can’t quite decipher. Is it naïve to think it might be disappointment?
Landon doesn’t know I’ve resumed the apartment hunt, but I can’t stay here much longer. I can’t keep doing this, and not just because it hurts too much. It’s the guilt gnawing away at me and the hole in my chest created by Mel’s silence. It’s the pain of knowing I betrayed her, made worse by her ignorance.
Before I know it, I’m packing for our trip, and I do my best to ignore the trepidation and focus on the excitement. On the morning of our flight, Landon arranges a driver to take us to the airport, and I spend the forty-minute drive trying not to think about how good he looks. Landon spends it responding to emails on his phone. He seems stressed, so I try not to disturb him.
I’ve never flown before, and the bustling airport is immediately overwhelming. Landon must recognize my anxiety, because he patiently guides me through security and the weaving, winding terminals that follow. We walk down a long, crowded hallway, skillfully dodging meandering travelers and their luggage until we find our gate.
“Shit,” mutters Landon, staring at the screen behind the gate agent.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Our flight’s delayed.” He groans and drops down into one of the plastic chairs, scrubbing his hands down his face in aggravation. I take the seat beside him, reaching out to pat his shoulder before thinking better of it. Touching him is probably not the best idea.
“That’s okay,” I try to assure him. “Now we get more time in the airport.”
Bracing his elbows on his knees, he runs his hands through his hair, tugging it at the root. “Why is that a good thing, Violet?”
