“It’s better,” he swears as he reaches for the sauces.
We sit. We eat. We laugh. And it’s easy. God, it’s easy.
He tells a story about a rafting trip where he almost tipped the boat because he insisted on taking the hardest line through the rapids. I tease him about having a quiet death wish. He tells me I’d love it because I look like someone who enjoys controlled chaos.
“You have no idea,” I say.
He wipes sauce from his thumb with a napkin, watching me with that steady, assessing gaze. “You look lighter tonight.”
“I outsourced my responsibilities.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I don’t know if it is.”
His smile fades into an expression that I can’t quite read. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“I hate Tuscany.”
He laughs, and it makes me feel like myself.
There’s no game between us, and that almost feels like a game in itself. I keep waiting for a cutting remark to put me in my place or something to go wrong and remind me that he’s just a man.
It never comes.
But something else does. Damian’s speaking, and I’m watching his lips form around the words, not really listening until I catch, “…makes me wonder, if I had it to do over again, would I do anything differently?”
I blink. “Do what differently?”
“Jason. Parenthood.”
Guilt slams into me. Technically, he has two do-overs, who are probably sleeping or screaming at Olivia’s.
I clear my throat. “I think everyone has something they’d do differently.”
“Oh? What about you? What would you do differently?”
My first thought is about the night we met, but it’s not true. If I hadn’t hooked up with him that night, I wouldn’t have my boys. So, that’s not it.
“Back in high school, I had a friend who made me feel like shit about myself?—”
“How?”
I shrug. “She was a straight-A student, involved in five different extracurriculars, graduated early from both high school and community college, then left for real college at sixteen.”
His eyes go wide. “That’s a lot of pressure on a kid.”
“Yeah, it was. I was always hearing, ‘Why can’t you be more like Reina?’ from my family.”
“Do you regret not being more like her?”
I chuckle bitterly and sip my orange soda. “Absolutely not. As it turns out, she was cheating for most of her classes. Then when she went to college, she couldn’t take the pressure. All that time and money spent was for nothing. She snapped, developed several addictions, and last I heard, she was barely able to keep a roof over her head.”
“That’s awful. But where does your regret come in?”
“I saw it. Back before she left for college, I saw her suffering. Even with the cheating, it was too much for her to keep up with. She was miserable, and because of that, she became someone else. Someone cold and distant and bitchy whenever I tried to hang out with her.” I drum my fingers on the table, feeling the regret deepen. “I should have said something to someone. Should have gotten her help back then before she tanked her life.”
He puts his hand on mine, and I can’t help but revel in the warmth of him. “That’s not your fault, Perry.”
