“She’s like sixty years old,” Parker says flatly.
Never mind. The image is all wrong.
“So, who’s the girl he’s gonna go out with?” I try to carefully steer the conversation away from my moment of jealousy … just into another trigger for it.
“Um, I’m actually not sure—some friend of Amy’s. We’ll have to see how it goes. I think Weston is difficult to nail down when it comes to a type.”
I nod, keeping a fake smile on my face. “Well, I hope he has fun. He’s the kind of guy I’d totally go for.” I realize my mistake quickly and then backtrack. “In a different situation.”
Parker goes silent for a few beats, causing my heart to palpitate with worry. “Um, yeah. He’s a good guy. I hope the date goes well for him.”
Okay, cool. He’s bypassing the subject of what I just said entirely.
I don’t know how to feel about it, and thankfully, I don’t have to go deeper into it, because the waitress arrives with our food. She sets the identical chicken club sandwiches down in front of us, and it becomes apparent that while we might be different, some things are the same.
“This looks good,” Parker comments, grabbing a fry and popping it into his mouth. “And itisgood,” he adds through a mouthful.
I give him an approving look, then focus on my own food. As much as I want to dig back into the whole Weston topic, I know it’s better to let it go. I already kind of outed myself to him with the comment about Weston beingmytype—though Parker didn’t seem to really process it. Or if he did, he’s choosing to ignore it.
I know how he feels about his friends dating me. He’s always said it complicates things too much, and given our upbringing, he’s always been extra protective. However, that didn’t save me from the heartbreak I’ve experienced regardless.
It’s just part of life.
I know it’s best to let it go, so as Parker takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, and swallows, I ask, “What do you think of this restaurant, now that you’ve tried the food?”
“I think I could probably eat here every day and get fat.” Parker chuckles, shaking his head. “But the walk to get here would work it all off.”
“So maybe youshouldmeet me for lunch once a week?” I offer it with sincerity, missing my brother more and more with every step we take toward closing the gap that’s grown between us over the years.
“Yeah…” He smiles. “Yeah, maybe we should. I could even bring Amy sometimes, if she can take off for an extra-long lunch. I think she’d enjoy spending time with you, too.”
“For sure.” I pick up a fry and pop it into my mouth. I focus on chewing it, while Parker devours his entire basket of food in the time it takes me to swallow. A man’s ability to inhale whatever they’re eating and still taste it, is beyond me.
“I’m really happy we met up,” Parker says, leaning back in the booth and wiping the mayo from the corner of his mouth. “I miss having you around. Like back in the old days.”
I nod, thinking back to those days. My mind brings back the old image of Weston unwillingly, despite me trying to brush him away from my brain. I can’t help but wonder if he noticed me back then … like he did at the birthday party. Is there a chance the moment I had with him could’ve come from a deeper place?
I purse my lips as I stare down at my food, my appetite waning slightly as I think about my embarrassing truce letter.
Ugh, I hope he likes sonnets.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Weston
I’m such a sucker for a good sonnet.My brain spins her silly words around in my head for the thousandth time, torturing me over the fact that I haven’t written her back. It’s not that I don’twantto. It’s just that I know this thing goes a lot deeper for me than it does for her, and I don’t know what to say.
“You’re not yourself today,” Maria’s voice chimes, cutting through the noise. “Bad day at work, yeah?”
I look up at her from where I’m sitting beside Rambo in the exercise yard, holding a tennis ball in my hand. He’s bouncing up and down, waiting for me to throw it. I don’t know how the guy hasn’t been adopted yet; it makes no sense to me. He’s my favorite dog at the shelter.
But he’s also the longest resident.
He nudges my hand, and I realize I haven’t even said anything to Maria yet. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the zombie state I’m in. “Sorry, yeah. I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe that for one second,” she tells me, cocking one of her dark-ish, gray eyebrows. “You look conflicted. Even Rambo can tell.”
I chuckle, giving the dog a good pat. “Yeah, I think he reads me like a book most of the time.”
