“They are.” He steps back and leans against the smooth metal countertop running around the room. Now we’re separated by a table.
“What’s that?” I point at the trainer in his hand.
The trainer identical to the one I lost in the mud on Thursday. The trainer that wasn’t there on Friday, or this morning when I went to look for it.
“I found it on the way home?—”
“It’s clean?—”
“I had it washed.”
He places it on the table between us, and I pick it up to smell it. I know,weird.But it’s clean, and Hendrickswashedit. Or he instructed one of the Burlington staff, but same dif.
And then I remember all the clothes Hendricks lent me, which are still at my place. Including his jumper, the one I haven’t been sleeping in because it doesn’t smell like him. Definitely not.
“Shit, I should have brought your things back too?—”
“You can bring them another time.”
“Okay.” I nod, and I wait.
Wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t do anything except stand there looking like cashmere was invented for him, all blue eyes and full lips, thick curls and dark stubble. It’s ridiculous.
The first time Hendricks and I nearly kissed, he pulled back and left me so abruptly. I didn’t hear from him again for a week and when I did, it wasn’t the same. The summer I was hoping might happen fell flat on its arse. We never talked about what happened.
The only times we visited the waterfall that summer were with groups of friends, where I’d watch him go offwith every girl who wasn’t me.
I should have called him out then, but I didn’t.
Not this time. I’m older—debatably—more mature, and I’ve already lost everything I was once terrified of losing.
“So. Are we going to talk about Thursday night?”
He pushes his hands deep into his pockets. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
I know he knows me better than to think I’m going to back down from this conversation, but jeez, not even meeting me halfway. Okay then.
I start with a lighthearted, “We nearly kissed . . .”
For a split second, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “Yup.”
“And then we were interrupted.”
He nods. “We were.”
“Are we going to pick up where we left off?”
Every cell in my body tenses. My breath is stuck somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.
Eventually, his head shakes softly. My stomach drops, and it feels like every organ falls into the empty space it left behind.
“I told you so.”
“Shut the fuckup, Story.”
“I’m sorry.” He almost whispers to himself. “I can’t.”
“Can’t? What does that mean? Can’t or don’t want to?” It comes out way snarlier than I mean it.
