I shove the pizza box aside and attempt to look casual. Keyword: attempt. I end up stretched out in a weird half-lounging position, propped up on one elbow like I’ve never encountered a couch before in my life. It’s deeply embarrassing. I feel like I’m seventeen again, on a first date, except—important distinction—this is not a date.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“It should be work,” she adds, tucking her legs under herself. “But I guess we ruined that. I don’t usually call or text clients. It’s e-mails only.”
“We knew each other before, though,” I point out, because that feels like a valid defense.
She snorts. “I hated you.”
“Harsh.”
“It’s accurate.”
Well, I called her a bitch at some point too. I don’t say that of course.
“And now?” I tilt my head. “You done being a brat?”
“If you’re asking whether I still hate you…” She pretends to think about it, tapping her chin. “Not as much.”
“Fine. I’ll take the win.”
A beat passes. The movie keeps playing. A woman is crying and I have no idea who she is or why she would be crying.
“Colton,” she says eventually, turning toward me. She crosses her arms beneath her chest. It lifts her boobs in a way I really shouldn’t be noticing. “What do you even do to relax? You don’t watch movies, you eat like a nutrition label, and you read. That’s not fun.”
“Reading is fun,” I say.
“Sure. Butwhatdo you read?”
I hesitate, which is already incriminating. “Mostly nonfiction. But sometimes… mysteries.”
Her eyes narrow. “Sometimes?”
“Rarely.”
“Wow,” she deadpans. “You’re thrilling.”
I nudge her side. “I just have a lot going on.”
Which is more than true.
I don’t mention the rest. Not the nights spent sitting in my car, stalking my ex. Not the constant angst I feel that she’d leave my baby alone again and again. Not the constant, low-grade tension that never really leaves my body. Not the fact that relaxing hasn’t felt natural in a long time.
I just shrug instead.
“It’s off-season,” I add. “Figured I could pretend to be normal for a bit.”
And somehow the night just… slips into conversation.
One topic turns into another, and suddenly we’re talking about everything—what we like, what we can’t stand, the small, random things that shouldn’t matter but somehow do.
I can’t remember the last time I learned this much about someone without it being a date.
She works too much. Eats way too much junk food. Runs on coffee. Loves Marvel and Disney. Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she doesn’t say it like she wants sympathy. Just… like it’s a fact. And if she could, she’d go to the cinema once a week without fail.
We just keep talking.
Until her voice slows.
