But I don’t want him to see them fall.
He tried to be supportive when I cried, at the start. But eventually, any sign of a shining tear just frustrated him.
I can’t really tell what he thinks of them now. He just sits there.
I almost expect him to reach across the table, a singular thumb ready to swipe them away. And that almost makes me laugh. Because it’s not Scott who possesses any inkling of kindness and empathy. It’s the other people in my life who care about me who set this other expectation.
Imani or Miller—they’d be leaning across the table to catch the tears, so I didn’t have to.
But Scott looks at them clinically, like he’s unsure of their exact source.
He goes as far as to steeple his hands, resting his fingers on the precipice of his mouth before he decides to stand and offer his final word. “You didn’t have to be alone, Ren.” He clears his throat, his hands finding the pockets of his tailored khakis. “You don’t have to take that job. You could apply to school here. I could support you this time.”
One brow arches, and he turns on his heel, leaving me like he’s delivered some impassioned speech about his undying love for me.
And I think, in Scott’s mind—the way Scott sees love—he probably has.
The only thing that left me with was the certainty that Scott Saunders doesn’t know what love is—he never has—and I’m certainly not interested in him, or any suggestions about what I should or shouldn’t do.
But there’s this other thing that’s so hard to ignore, sitting here with my chest, torn open by his hands and his words again—even with all the beautiful, lovely writing, all fresh and newly scratched on the inside of me about my resiliency and strength—that some of those words, they might just be true.
Miller
I pick Ren up in the stupidest car I have in the garage.
Matty’s favourite, actually.
A 2020 McLaren Senna he didn’t even keep at the cottage, where he’d at least had more real estate on the road to open it up if he wanted. This one sat in the driveway at his house, or in Toronto traffic whenever he drove down to the stadium.
It even has those doors that open up instead of out.
She does do a double take, making a big show of leaning backwards so she doesn’t get hit when the passenger door opens slower than almost anything on the planet, but she’s quieter than usual when she slides into the pristine leather seat.
My thumb taps against the steering wheel, eyes cutting between the traffic on the road and her—the downturned pout of full lips, the bottom one heavier with something, blue eyes still bright but not shining like usual, and her hair, tied in a messy braid, draped over a shoulder.
“You, uh, okay?” I clear my throat, chancing another sideways glance.
“Hmm?” she asks absentmindedly before she turns in her seat to face me.
“You seem quiet, that’s all. We don’t have to do this today, if you’re not up for it.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” She reaches out, tapping my shoulder with each word. “I’m excited to play catch. I can’t wait to see you put those good hands to use.”
She scrunches her nose when she says it, but something winks at me from behind her eyes and I have to put my hands at ten and two, so I don’t veer into fucking traffic.
I tighten my grip on the wheel. “What’s got you so tired?”
Ren swings her feet, kicking her sandals off so she can bring them up to rest on the seat. “Work. It’s a lot to process the new collection for the exhibit, and obviously I have to make sure it’s in the best shape possible for our practice date.”
She throws me a look, and a grin twitches at the corners of my mouth. “Oh yeah?” I ask. “For us and our practice date, not for any of the donors or partners?”
“Obviously our foray back into dating will be the most important part of the night.” She clicks her tongue before flicking a hand in the air. “It doesn’t help that Scott’s constantly lingering; you never know when you might round a corner and, poof, there he is.”
“Too bad it’s not the other kind of poof.” I finally cut her a sideways look. “You know, the one that made all the dinosaurs go extinct back in the day.”
She tips her head back, the lines of her neck shift in laughter, and her braid brushes across the curve of her chest. “That would save me all the unfortunate run-ins.”
My eyes snap back to the road. “Are there ever ... fortunate run-ins with him?”
