“I’m not telling wild animals anything. I’m tellingyouthat bears are not on our list of worries tonight.”
“I’ll make my own list of worries, thanks.”
I watched the fire for a minute before I realized Walker was studying me.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re different now,” he said.
Was that supposed to be an insult? “You’re the same,” I said back.
But he was still watching me.
“What?” I prompted again.
“It’s good to see you again,” Walker said.
That was unexpected. I looked down.
Then he added, “And I’m glad I didn’t kill you today.”
I shifted to study the fire. “I’m also glad you didn’t kill me.”
“And . . .” he started.
But then he waited so long, I finally looked back over at him.
He met my eyes. “And I’m sorry about high school,” he said.
I felt a funny pressure in my chest.
“I know it’s too late, and I can’t imagine it still matters to you. But I never got a chance to say it. Or guess I never knew how to say it. Or maybe I didn’t have enough courage.” He swallowed and looked over at the fire. “It doesn’t change anything, I know. But I just want you to know that what happened that day is the biggest regret of my life.”
The pressure in my chest tightened.
Walker was apologizing. I’d wanted him to apologize for so long, and now it was happening. I should feel some feelings, shouldn’t I?Relief? Comfort?He was acknowledging he’d done wrong—and he was sorry. This should be a monumental personal moment for me.
But all I could feel was my rib cage compressing.
Maybe it was too late for apologies. Maybe I’d grown too much scar tissue over the wound. Or maybe it was just easier to see him as a villain.
I looked back at the fire and thought about the high school version of Walker—the one I’d loved so madly and swoonily and desperately. He always used to say he didn’t believe in regrets—that everything had something to teach you. He used to joke about wanting a tattoo that saidNo Regerts.
“I thought you didn’t believe in regrets,” I said.
But Walker just shrugged. “I do now.”
At that, he leaned way over to grab his carry-on backpack from beside the sofa. Then he pulled out a half-smooshed cardboard box and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It was fine before we hit the tree, I swear,” Walker said. “I was really careful with it all day.”
I worked the lid up, and inside the smooshed box was ... a smooshed cupcake.
We both peered down at it.
“I bet it still tastes good, though,” Walker said.
