“Please. If I knew the ending, I’d have bet money on it by now.” Her mouth curved. “Although I do think there’s a strong chance of you standing on a podium while I embarrass you publicly.”
“That sounds threatening.”
She pointed at me. “Huge banner. Your face. Possibly glitter.”
I stared at her. “You haven't.”
“Not yet.” Her grin widened. “But now that I’ve seen your reaction, I’m considering it.”
I laughed.
Her hand brushed my cheek. “Try to keep your head in the game, okay? I’d hate for existential longing to ruin the aesthetic.”
I caught her wrist before she pulled away. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime.”
There was no way I was letting her go without asking the one question that had been burning through my mind.
I kept hold of her wrist. “Claire? Why aren’t you weirded out by this?”
“By what?”
“The conversation.”
“The conversation about Luka?” Claire looked delighted. “Dean.”
“What?”
“You think I spent three years dating you and somehow missed the fact that you occasionally develop intense and slightly alarming fascinations with people?”
I stared at her. “That’s a terrible description.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Besides, you talked about him for an hour.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Actually it does.”
I narrowed my eyes.
Claire’s expression was unexpectedly gentle.
“Dean, if I’d spent the last hour talking about somebody the way you’ve been talking about him, you wouldn’t have assumed I was having an identity crisis.”
That stopped me.
“You would’ve assumed they mattered.”
We hugged once more before parting ways. I watched her disappear into the crowd, then turned back toward the arena.
You would’ve assumed they mattered.
Claire always did know how to leave a conversation lodged under my skin.
