“Pfft. I mean, no. I like flying. I fly great. Good flyer. I just . . .” I chuckle at my own words and drop my face into my palm. “A little. Takeoff, mostly. Maybe a bit during. And . . . landing.”
I peek at her through my fingers, and her head falls back with a healthy laugh.
“That’s pretty much the whole thing,” she says. “Come on.”
Looping her arm through mine, she guides me to the sports bar in the middle of the concourse. There are a lot of people here for it being so late at night. Weather in the Northeast delayed a lot of flights, I read, and some planes were diverted to Houston. Thankfully, our flight still says it’s on time.
“Two Sam Adams,” Colby says, ordering for me.
“Oh, you like Sam now, do ya?” I quirk a brow at her. Sam has always been my favorite, and Colby teased me endlessly in high school about being a beer snob and refusing to drink the cheap shit at parties.
“A paycheck allows for more discerning taste,” she says.
“Yeah, right. You just finally realized that other stuff is piss, is all,” I say, letting my guard down more.
A hard laugh belts out of her body, and when our eyes meet, I catch a glimpse of joy behind her irises. I forgot how easy it wasto laugh with her. Usually, it was the two of us trading barbs, shit-talking over who had a better game. It was always her.
“Here you go,” the bartender says, sliding two icy-cold mugs with perfect foam tops onto the bar top.
“Here,” Colby says, handing over her credit card before I have a chance to pay.
“Colb, you don’t have to?—”
She waves a hand and nods to the bartender to run it on her card.
“This is off the books, and on me. Nobody needs to question you drinking in an airport.” She keeps her eyes on the bartender, quickly signing the receipt and tossing a five on top for a tip before tucking her card back into her wallet.
“You think people question that stuff? About me, I mean,” I say in a hushed tone. I’ve certainly considered how much my brother’s antics have stained my reputation, but I never thought twice about grabbing a beer at a restaurant. I don’t drink much during the season, and even during the off-season, I’m pretty strait-laced. Maybe that’s because of my family history. But I like to do everything I can to ensure my body is in tip-top condition. I took a lot of shit from the guys for skipping their fishing trip at the start of the season, but I knew it would be more about drinking than fish.
“Nobody thinks that stuff about you. Not that I’ve heard. I’m just sensitive because . . .” Our gazes linger for a few quiet seconds. No need for words.Because she was there. It was her mom that my dad killed. We have history.
Colby finally picks up her beer and takes a long sip, the foam leaving a mustache above her upper lip that she wipes away with the side of her palm. It’s cute, and I wish we were the kind of friends who could kiss away beer mustaches. More than the kind of friends.
“What are you smirking at?” she asks when I’m caught staring.
I let my soft grin remain, taking my own sip of beer before answering her.
“You.”
There’s an instant rush of warmth as her eyes widen ever so slightly at my admission. She pulls her hoodie off a moment later, and I know it’s not because this airport is hot. In fact, it’s freezing from the air conditioning where we’re seated. I made her feel that heat. With a look and a word.
Of course, Colby holds most of the power here, and the longer she keeps her eyes on me, taking slow sips beforealmostspeaking, the more I want to scream for mercy . . . or simply pull her into my lap and kiss her.
“Who’d you end up going to prom with?” she finally asks.
I cough mid-gulp of beer, then set my half-full mug down as I continue to clear my throat and will away the burning sensation in my chest. Prom. After our kiss. After the explicit instructions from her father to leave his daughter alone.
“I’m . . . not sure.” That’s a fucking lie, and Colby laughs hard the moment it leaves my lips.
“Bullshit, you went with Kara Stolz.” She purses her lips and lifts a brow before taking a victory sip of beer.
“Wow, uh . . . yeah. You’re right. I did. I don’t know why I didn’t just say that.” I shake my head and look to my lap, wishing I could stave off the burning sensation creeping up my cheeks and around my neck.
“You went with Rafa, if I remember right?” Rafa was our class president. He was smart. He’s still smart. Last I heard, he left Stanford early to start his own tech company. It’s going public.
“I did. I mean, he was the only one who asked me, so . . .” She rolls her eyes a bit, then finishes her beer, sliding the mug backon the counter with a little flair before crossing her arms over her chest and spinning her stool so her body is facing me.
“Good on Rafa,” I say under the heat of her glare. She’s still smirking, though there’s a hint of spite in her expression—at least, how I’m reading it.
