We really should have had them deliver.
“It smells so good in here. Beats that last MRE meal any day,” he says.
I raise my head off his shoulder. “I thought the helicopter crew was doing food drops?”
“We got into some pretty steep terrain on our last day,” he admits.
An unsavory churning seizes the pit of my stomach. Not only did I miss him while he was gone, but I worried about him too.
Only… people doing casual don’t worry. Which means I need to focus on a different feeling.
Empathy? Compassion?No, neither of thosescreams casual.
Curiosity?Yeah. I can act interested without seeming attached.
“What does an MRE meal taste like? I’ve always wondered.”
“I don’t know about all of them, but this was some sort of chicken and mashed potato situation that’s right up there with the texture of sludge. I think chalk mixed with a tablespoon of water might be better.”
I imitate a gag reflex. No wonder he’s moaning over pizza.
“Didyourfamily have a Friday night dinner ritual growing up?”
“No. We were more of a fend-for-yourself kind of household. In high school, my brothers and I got good at ordering from an app and having it delivered.”
A strong urge to wrap my arms around his waist takes over. Again, with the pesky not-casual feelings.
“Did your parents work late or something?” I ask instead.
Coming from a single parent household, I always had this vision of the perfect all-American family—a mother, a father, at least two children, all under the same roof. Reed had all of that and his reality is still not what my naive mind imagined.
He nods. “All the time. But they tried when they could.”
I question whether or not I imagined a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth with how swiftly he shrugs it away.
It doesn’t sound like they tried hard enough, I think to myself. But I’m pretty jaded in that department. What my dad did… the wordtrywouldn’t even be considered in the same zip code.
Reed was right earlier. We are more alike than I thought. Which means he knows how it feels to be forgotten. And I’ll remind him he’s worth all the time and attention as much as he needs to hear it.
“Thirty-six,” a teenager in a white polo and visor hollers from behind the pick-up counter.
“You sure you don’t want to eat here?” I ask, pointing toward an intimate corner booth in the back.
Reed slides the flat box from the counter and rests it on his forearm.
“I seem to recall a certain someone preferring a date night in. Not sure where I’ll find a fire, but…”
My smile blooms.He remembered.
“Can I take you somewhere then?” I ask, knowing just the place.
He holds out his free arm to me and I loop mine through it. “I go where you go, Red.”
He ushers me past the row of wooden booths. There’s only ten of them. But with the high-back seating, you can’t see the occupants’ faces until you’re passing their table. That’s precisely how I’ve missed these two until we’re passing the last one.
My gaze lands on a shift dress accentuatingvery-there cleavage and blond curls. Not sitting across from the girl but with her on top of his lap and his hand on her thigh is Ben. Eyes closed, she inches in close to him, turns her head toward us, and presses her lips to his ear, whispering something that makes him flash a dangerous grin.
“What the hell,” I whisper, eyeing them both down.
