“Are you taller now?” I ask, even though it’s completely out of context.
He arches a brow. “Than when we were together? Yeah, I grew another two inches between nineteen and twenty-one. I’m just over six-three now.”
“I didn’t grow any more,” I deadpan.
He actually snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “Didn’t figure you would.”
We make small talk as we finish eating and he pays the bill.
Then we get in his SUV and make the ten-minute ride back to campus.
“Thank you for breakfast,” I say softly.
“You’re welcome.” He stops near the walkway that leads into the main building. “You good here?”
“Yes.” I reach into the back seat for my backpack. “I’m, uh, glad we had a chance to talk things out. I really am sorry about the way things went down.”
“I know.” He doesn’t look at me, merely tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
The silence stretches out so I slowly open the door. He still isn’t looking at me, which is how he behaves when he’s hurt, and I don’t know how or if I should fix it. Seeing him again would only bring a lot of stress to both our lives, no matter how strong the pull is.
“You don’t have to say anything, Victoria,” he says quietly. “Go on to class. We talked, cleared the air. I’m good. I mean, we never got a chance to last time, so this is our do-over. If you have something else to get off your chest, the time is now.”
There are still so many feelings I could bring up, but to what end? What am I trying to accomplish by talking about how much I loved him? We were both lied to, manipulated, and pushed apart. My father was the main culprit, but Jordan’s team and attorneys didn’t help either.
“We let them manipulate us.”
“We did.”
“Why?” I ask in frustration. “Why didn’t we recognize it for what it was?”
“Don’t do that.” He shakes his head. “We were teenagers battling multiple crises. The car accident. Miscarriage. My injuries. Legal threats. It was a lot for two kids. And that’s what we were—kids. Adult kids, but still kids.”
“So we get a pass on hurting each other?”
“What choice do we have? We can hold on to the anger and hurt, but the only ones that’ll suffer are you and me. I think we’ve been through enough. We don’t need to put that on each other.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Nothing. I asked if you wanted us to see each other again, you said no, so that’s that. Time to move on.”
“It feels…weird.”
“Weird how?”
“It’s hard to articulate.”
“I can’t help you express what you’re feeling,” he says simply.
“What are you feeling?” I counter in frustration.
He shrugs. “Honestly? Not much. I now know things I haven’t had time to process, and that’ll take some time, but otherwise, I’m thinking about the game tonight. You know hockey is always my priority.”
He’s lying. I know the tells. When he shrugs a lot. When he doesn’t meet my gaze. When he acts aloof. And when he says that hockey is his priority—that’s bullshit. I was his priority once upon a time. Until I wasn’t.
This is all an act, one that I recognize. The difference now is that he isn’t my boyfriend, and it’s not my job to make this better, even though I really, really want to.
“Play well tonight,” I say instead. “I guess…I’ll see you around.”
