It’s from Miller. But it’s not a text.
It’s a link to a website for a bar in the East End that hosts a weekly movie trivia night, and judging by the calendar, tonight is all aboutJurassic Park.
Number one on Ren’s Reasons to Be Ren.
Something stutters in my chest when I chew my lip, blinking down at the page and the name of the bar spelled out like the sign above the gates inJurassic Park, in the titular font that became recognizable for one thing.
A real text comes in.
Miller: Guy on my team told me about this on the plane home.
Followed by another.
Miller: I just got back to my place. But I don’t have to be at the stadium until tomorrow afternoon, if you were up for ticking the first thing off your list.
And another.
Miller: Looks like it’s just about the movies though. Sorry, you’ll have to save the real dinosaur knowledge for another night.
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. This isn’t just a Scott thing. It was something he took from me, but he’s not the sole reason it hurts. And as much as I wrote this down as the first thing on my list, it feels different when I’m confronted with it.
Ren: Aren’t you tired?
Miller: Nah. If you’re game, I am. If you’re worried, going to the grocery store wasn’t so bad.
Miller: Not when you were there.
That stuttering thing turns into a blooming feeling. Like bravery, I think. His and mine. And like this feeling I haven’t had in so very long—when someone sees something valuable in you that, maybe, you can’t see in yourself.
Sniffing, I glance down at the spilled noodles. At the mess of papers, the winking lights of scattered candles, and all these pieces of me everywhere in the apartment.
They’re a bit messy, chaotic and frayed around the edges. And maybe I am too.
But that’s no reason not to be me.
Ren: Okay. I can meet you there at eight?
I don’t like to be late, but I usually am. Not so much that people tell me an early start time to try to get me somewhere on time. But ten to fifteen minutes, usually.
It’s another piece of that mess Scott hated so much I’ve tried and tried to clean up. It’s not intentional and it’s never nefarious. I leave the house with good intentions, but sometimes, things stop me on the way.
Today, it was a display of fresh peonies for sale outside the subway. They were beautiful, and I wanted to let the florist know.
It only cost me five minutes, but Miller’s already there—leaning up against the brick, one foot kicked up, which just pops all the muscles in his legs, the linen shorts he’s wearing pulling taut across his quads.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be late, I—” I start, but he lifts up a piece of paper between two fingers in greeting.
“All good. Already got one of the trivia sheets. Couldn’t come up with a good team name though, so we’ll have to be known as Team Miller and Ren. Hope that’s okay.” A grin kicks his mouth to the side, and he rolls up the sleeves of his sweater when he pushes off the wall.
My shoulders fall, a bit in relief. It’s a worry I still carry around—that even though Miller has given me no indication heconsiders punctuality to be of the utmost importance, I might somehow disappoint him, too.
He holds the sheet out to me, and a smile stretches, burning my cheeks when I see our names on the team line in his untidy scrawl, and beneath that, empty space for us to answer ten questions over ten rounds.
Lifting my eyes to him, I quirk a brow. “Look at you, a second public appearance outside a game in what, two weeks? And you’re not even using a fake name?”
Miller laughs, and it sounds almost like the way it did at the gala—hoarse and unused—but the lines of his shoulders and the lift of his mouth tell me he’s not uncomfortable with the sound. He gives his head a slow shake. “Told you at the grocery store. I don’t cheat. I win. And when we win tonight—it looks like there’s a shitty dinosaur trophy up for grabs—it’s a victory I’d like to add to the shelf.”
“Oh! Which dinosaur?” I ask brightly, before my brows snap together, my eye roll barely contained. “Let me guess, it’s probably a tyrannosaur.”
