Someone walks past me and a soft breeze ghosts across my overheating skin. I stare in a state of utter disbelief as Ryan Thompson steps into view beside Jason.
“It’s been a while, Sullivan,” he says, his voice and light Southern drawl as steady and tempting as ever.
My champagne glass falls from my fingers and shatters against the floor.
“Kara?” Cristina’s voice rings with concern as she nudges us away from the broken glass that’s now littered around our feet. She grasps my elbow, but I don’t feel it. She could backhand me across the face with a polo mallet and I wouldn’t feel it. My mind is spiraling, plummeting inwards as I come to grips with the realization that Ryan is standing two feet away from me.
Dressed in a navy suit, a crisp white button-down and brown dress shoes, he’s come a long way from the sweatshirts and jeans that were his unofficial uniform in college. His dirty-blond hair is on the shorter side, but a few wayward strands still fall across his forehead. Ten years ago, I would have reached up and brushed them aside without a thought. Now my hand curls into a tight, unforgiving fist at my side.
If we were another former couple, seeing each other for the first time in a decade might be a dreamy, serendipitous meet-cute—a Nancy Meyers movie in pre-production. We’d have a few drinks and spend hours reminiscing about old times before picking up right where we left off. It would be comfortable and familiar as anything, like a sip of hot chocolate at Christmas with Nat King Cole crooning on vinyl in the background.
But we are not that kind of former couple, and I’m convinced that if Nat King Cole were here and knew my side of the story, he would grab Ryan by the scruff of his shirt and hold him steady as I roundhouse-kicked him in the throat.
It’s a tough pill to swallow but Ryan looks good. Like, really good. His face is harder than it was when he was twenty-one and the stubble on his chin tells me he hasn’t shaved in a few days, making him seem like he just rolled out of bed. And not rolled out of bed in a dirty way, but in a I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-yet-I-still-look-ruggedly-handsome-and-you-fully-want-to-make-out-with-me kind of way.
The bastard.
“Ryan,” Cristina says, always the first to jump in, “Jason mentioned that you and Kara went to college together.”
“We did.” His eyes don’t move from mine for even a second. “It’s got to be what, ten years now?”
“Yeah, it’s been a long, long time,” I say quickly, turning to face Cristina. “I think I may have mentioned him before. Remember myfriendfrom North Carolina?”
If someone were to look up “my friend from North Carolina” in the Dictionary of Kara, they would find the following: My friend from North Carolina (noun): 1. Ryan Thompson. 2. My college boyfriend. 3. My first real boyfriend ever. 4. My first love. 5. Taker of my virginity. 6. Guy who massacred my heart with a rusty sledgehammer and fed the remains to rabid, ravenous dogs.
Cristina is well versed in the Dictionary of Kara and recognition washes over her. “No way,” she says, her voice dropping.
“Yes way,” I answer happily, overcompensating.
Now it’s Cristina’s turn to panic. “Wow. Okay, wow, what a small world, huh?” She grabs Jason’s hand in an iron grip, making him wince as she blasts an over-the-top smile. “Well, we should give you guys a chance to catch up. Myabuelitajust got here so Jason and I are going to say hello.”
“Yourabuelitadied two years ago,” I hiss.
“I know, it’s a miracle. See you two later!” She drags her soon-to-be husband away before he can get a word out.
I watch them go, sailing away like the last lifeboat as I stand on deck with the string quartet, the cheerful Bach melody only further confirming that this ship is going down.
2
“So,” Ryan says, drawing my attention back to him. “We meet again.”
“We meet again,” I answer.
He tilts his head, scrutinizing my expression. “I have to say, you don’t look happy to see me, Sullivan.”
I exhale out a bitter laugh. “Oh, no. I absolutely am. I’m downright joyful.”
“Your demolished champagne flute tells a different story. Not to mention your monotone voice and the subtle, murderous glint in your eyes.”
“Yeah, well, it was a slippery flute.”
“Now, there’s a line you don’t hear every day.”
His voice and words slip under my skin with sickening ease. I can already feel my patience wearing thin, a guitar string being tuned so tight that it snaps.
“Okay, fine. I’m shocked to see you and not in a good way. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Ryan continues to study me with his unrelenting gaze. “It’s not necessarily what I want to hear,” he admits, “but I’d prefer that to polite lies. You never used to have a problem being honest with me.”
